Right Ho, Jeeves

Gussie looked up. His eye was dull. He clutched the thatch. “Goodbye, Bertie,” he said, rising. I seemed to spot an error. “You mean ‘Hullo,’ don’t you?” “No, I don’t. I mean goodbye. I’m off.” “Off where?” “To the kitchen garden. To drown myself.” “Don’t be an ass.” “I’m not an ass.... Am I an ass, Jeeves?” “Possibly a little injudicious, sir.” “Drowning myself, you mean?” “Yes, sir.” “You think, on the whole, not drown myself?” “I should not advocate it, sir.” “Very well, Jeeves. I accept your ruling. After all, it would be unpleasant for Mrs. Travers to find a swollen body floating in her pond.” “Yes, sir.” “And she has been very kind to me.” “Yes, sir.” “And you have been very kind to me, Jeeves.” “Thank you, sir.” “So have you, Bertie. Very kind. Everybody has been very kind to me. Very, very kind. Very kind indeed. I have no complaints to make. All right, I’ll go for a walk instead.” I followed him with bulging eyes as he tottered off into the dark. “Jeeves,” I said, and I am free to admit that in my emotion I bleated like a lamb drawing itself to the attention of the parent sheep, “what the dickens is all this?” “Mr. Fink-Nottle is not quite himself, sir. He has passed through a trying experience.” I endeavoured to put together a brief synopsis of previous events. “I left him out here with Miss Bassett.” “Yes, sir.” “I had softened her up.”