Right Ho, Jeeves

And, keeping it snappy, I related what had passed between the Bassett and myself on the previous night. “So all you have to do is play a return date, and you cannot fail to swing the voting. You are her dream man.” He shook his head. “No.” “What?” “No use.” “What do you mean?” “Not a bit of good trying.” “But I tell you she said in so many words----” “It doesn’t make any difference. She may have loved me once. Last night will have killed all that.” “Of course it won’t.” “It will. She despises me now.” “Not a bit of it. She knows you simply got cold feet.” “And I should get cold feet if I tried again. It’s no good, Bertie. I’m hopeless, and there’s an end of it. Fate made me the sort of chap who can’t say ‘bo’ to a goose.” “It isn’t a question of saying ‘bo’ to a goose. The point doesn’t arise at all. It is simply a matter of----” “I know, I know. But it’s no good. I can’t do it. The whole thing is off. I am not going to risk a repetition of last night’s fiasco. You talk in a light way of taking another whack at her, but you don’t know what it means. You have not been through the experience of starting to ask the girl you love to marry you and then suddenly finding yourself talking about the plumlike external gills of the newly-born newt. It’s not a thing you can do twice. No, I accept my destiny. It’s all over. And now, Bertie, like a good chap, shove off. I want to compose my speech. I can’t compose my speech with you mucking around. If you are going to continue to muck around, at least give me a couple of stories. The little hell hounds are sure to expect a story or two.”