Right Ho, Jeeves

“Yes, Jeeves?” I said, champing contentedly. “In the matter of your mess-jacket, sir.” A nameless fear shot through me, causing me to swallow a mouthful of omelette the wrong way. “I am sorry to say, sir, that while I was ironing it this afternoon I was careless enough to leave the hot instrument upon it. I very much fear that it will be impossible for you to wear it again, sir.” One of those old pregnant silences filled the room. “I am extremely sorry, sir.” For a moment, I confess, that generous wrath of mine came bounding back, hitching up its muscles and snorting a bit through the nose, but, as we say on the Riviera, à quoi sert-il? There was nothing to be gained by g.w. now. We Woosters can bite the bullet. I nodded moodily and speared another slab of omelette. “Right ho, Jeeves.” “Very good, sir.”