Right Ho, Jeeves

“She would, if she were a female newt.” “But she isn’t a female newt.” “No, but suppose she was.” “Well, if she was, you wouldn’t be in love with her.” “Yes, I would, if I were a male newt.” A slight throbbing about the temples told me that this discussion had reached saturation point. “Well, anyway,” I said, “coming down to hard facts and cutting out all this visionary stuff about vibrating tails and what not, the salient point that emerges is that you are booked to appear at a fancy-dress ball. And I tell you out of my riper knowledge of fancy-dress balls, Gussie, that you won’t enjoy yourself.” “It isn’t a question of enjoying yourself.” “I wouldn’t go.” “I must go. I keep telling you she’s off to the country tomorrow.” I gave it up. “So be it,” I said. “Have it your own way.... Yes, Jeeves?” “Mr. Fink-Nottle’s cab, sir.” “Ah? The cab, eh?... Your cab, Gussie.” “Oh, the cab? Oh, right. Of course, yes, rather.... Thanks, Jeeves ... Well, so long, Bertie.” And giving me the sort of weak smile Roman gladiators used to give the Emperor before entering the arena, Gussie trickled off. And I turned to Jeeves. The moment had arrived for putting him in his place, and I was all for it. It was a little difficult to know how to begin, of course. I mean to say, while firmly resolved to tick him off, I didn’t want to gash his feelings too deeply. Even when displaying the iron hand, we Woosters like to keep the thing fairly matey.