Right Ho, Jeeves

Nevertheless, I persevered. “But have you considered,” I said, “that you may have got a wrong line on Gussie’s performance this afternoon? Admitted that all the evidence points to a more sinister theory, what price him simply having got a touch of the sun? Chaps do get touches of the sun, you know, especially when the weather’s hot.” She looked at me, and I saw that she was putting in a bit of the old drenched-irises stuff. “It was like you to say that, Bertie. I respect you for it.” “Oh, no.” “Yes. You have a splendid, chivalrous soul.” “Not a bit.” “Yes, you have. You remind me of Cyrano.” “Who?” “Cyrano de Bergerac.” “The chap with the nose?” “Yes.” I can’t say I was any too pleased. I felt the old beak furtively. It was a bit on the prominent side, perhaps, but, dash it, not in the Cyrano class. It began to look as if the next thing this girl would do would be to compare me to Schnozzle Durante. “He loved, but pleaded another’s cause.” “Oh, I see what you mean now.” “I like you for that, Bertie. It was fine of you--fine and big. But it is no use. There are things which kill love. I can never forget Augustus, but my love for him is dead. I will be your wife.” Well, one has to be civil. “Right ho,” I said. “Thanks awfully.” Then the dialogue sort of poofed out once more, and we stood eating cheese straws and cold eggs respectively in silence. There seemed to exist some little uncertainty as to what the next move was.