Right Ho, Jeeves

“Oh, it’s you, is it?” she said. Well, it was, of course. “Where’s Angela?” I asked. “Gone to bed.” “Already?” “She said she had a headache.” “H’m.” I wasn’t so sure that I liked the sound of that so much. A girl who has observed the sundered lover sensationally off his feed does not go to bed with headaches if love has been reborn in her heart. She sticks around and gives him the swift, remorseful glance from beneath the drooping eyelashes and generally endeavours to convey to him that, if he wants to get together across a round table and try to find a formula, she is all for it too. Yes, I am bound to say I found that going-to-bed stuff a bit disquieting. “Gone to bed, eh?” I murmured musingly. “What did you want her for?” “I thought she might like a stroll and a chat.” “Are you going for a stroll?” said Aunt Dahlia, with a sudden show of interest. “Where?” “Oh, hither and thither.” “Then I wonder if you would mind doing something for me.” “Give it a name.” “It won’t take you long. You know that path that runs past the greenhouses into the kitchen garden. If you go along it, you come to a pond.” “That’s right.” “Well, will you get a good, stout piece of rope or cord and go down that path till you come to the pond----” “To the pond. Right.” “--and look about you till you find a nice, heavy stone. Or a fairly large brick would do.”