Right Ho, Jeeves

And I was on the brink of adding that I wouldn’t touch Angela with a barge pole, when I remembered I had said it already and it hadn’t gone frightfully well. I desisted, therefore. My manly frankness seemed to be producing good results. The homicidal glare was dying out of Tuppy’s eyes. He had the aspect of a hired assassin who had paused to think things over. “I see,” he said, at length. “All right, then. Sorry you were troubled.” “Don’t mention it, old man,” I responded courteously. For the first time since the bushes had begun to pour forth Glossops, Bertram Wooster could be said to have breathed freely. I don’t say I actually came out from behind the bench, but I did let go of it, and with something of the relief which those three chaps in the Old Testament must have experienced after sliding out of the burning fiery furnace, I even groped tentatively for my cigarette case. The next moment a sudden snort made me take my fingers off it as if it had bitten me. I was distressed to note in the old friend a return of the recent frenzy. “What the hell did you mean by telling her that I used to be covered with ink when I was a kid?” “My dear Tuppy----” “I was almost finickingly careful about my personal cleanliness as a boy. You could have eaten your dinner off me.” “Quite. But----” “And all that stuff about having no soul. I’m crawling with soul. And being looked on as an outsider at the Drones----”