Right Ho, Jeeves

And the next moment you could have knocked me down with a toothpick. “Yes,” she said, nodding thoughtfully, “you’re quite right.” “Eh?” “That’s exactly what I’ve been thinking myself.” “What!” “‘Dumb brick.’ It just describes him. One of the six silliest asses in England, I should think he must be.” I did not speak. I was endeavouring to adjust the faculties, which were in urgent need of a bit of first-aid treatment. I mean to say, all this had come as a complete surprise. In formulating the well-laid plan which I had just been putting into effect, the one contingency I had not budgeted for was that she might adhere to the sentiments which I expressed. I had braced myself for a gush of stormy emotion. I was expecting the tearful ticking off, the girlish recriminations and all the rest of the bag of tricks along those lines. But this cordial agreement with my remarks I had not foreseen, and it gave me what you might call pause for thought. She proceeded to develop her theme, speaking in ringing, enthusiastic tones, as if she loved the topic. Jeeves could tell you the word I want. I think it’s “ecstatic”, unless that’s the sort of rash you get on your face and have to use ointment for. But if that is the right word, then that’s what her manner was as she ventilated the subject of poor old Tuppy. If you had been able to go simply by the sound of her voice, she might have been a court poet cutting loose about an Oriental monarch, or Gussie Fink-Nottle describing his last consignment of newts.