Right Ho, Jeeves

“No, sir.” “But he’s betrothed.” “No longer, sir. Miss Bassett has severed the engagement.” “You don’t mean that?” “Yes, sir.” I wonder if you have noticed a rather peculiar thing about this chronicle. I allude to the fact that at one time or another practically everybody playing a part in it has had occasion to bury his or her face in his or her hands. I have participated in some pretty glutinous affairs in my time, but I think that never before or since have I been mixed up with such a solid body of brow clutchers. Uncle Tom did it, if you remember. So did Gussie. So did Tuppy. So, probably, though I have no data, did Anatole, and I wouldn’t put it past the Bassett. And Aunt Dahlia, I have no doubt, would have done it, too, but for the risk of disarranging the carefully fixed coiffure. Well, what I am trying to say is that at this juncture I did it myself. Up went the hands and down went the head, and in another jiffy I was clutching as energetically as the best of them. And it was while I was still massaging the coconut and wondering what the next move was that something barged up against the door like the delivery of a ton of coals. “I think this may very possibly be Mr. Fink-Nottle himself, sir,” said Jeeves. His intuition, however, had led him astray. It was not Gussie but Tuppy. He came in and stood breathing asthmatically. It was plain that he was deeply stirred.