Right Ho, Jeeves

She seemed to come out of a reverie. She looked at me inquiringly. “I’m sorry, Bertie, I didn’t hear. What were you talking drivel about?” “I was not talking drivel.” “Oh, sorry, I thought you said you were.” “Is it likely that I would come out here in order to talk drivel?” “Very likely.” I thought it best to haul off and approach the matter from another angle. “I’ve just been seeing Tuppy.” “Oh?” “And Gussie Fink-Nottle.” “Oh, yes?” “It appears that you have gone and got engaged to the latter.” “Quite right.” “Well, that’s what I meant when I said it was all perfect drivel. You can’t possibly love a chap like Gussie.” “Why not?” “You simply can’t.” Well, I mean to say, of course she couldn’t. Nobody could love a freak like Gussie except a similar freak like the Bassett. The shot wasn’t on the board. A splendid chap, of course, in many ways--courteous, amiable, and just the fellow to tell you what to do till the doctor came, if you had a sick newt on your hands--but quite obviously not of Mendelssohn’s March timber. I have no doubt that you could have flung bricks by the hour in England’s most densely populated districts without endangering the safety of a single girl capable of becoming Mrs. Augustus Fink-Nottle without an anaesthetic. I put this to her, and she was forced to admit the justice of it. “All right, then. Perhaps I don’t.” “Then what,” I said keenly, “did you want to go and get engaged to him for, you unreasonable young fathead?”