Right Ho, Jeeves

I gave her another of the austere and censorious, and this time it registered. All the effect it had, however, was to cause her to descend to personalities. “Don’t blink at me in that obscene way,” she said. “I wonder, Bertie,” she proceeded, gazing at me as I should imagine Gussie would have gazed at some newt that was not up to sample, “if you have the faintest conception how perfectly loathsome you look? A cross between an orgy scene in the movies and some low form of pond life. I suppose you were out on the tiles last night?” “I attended a social function, yes,” I said coldly. “Pongo Twistleton’s birthday party. I couldn’t let Pongo down. Noblesse oblige.” “Well, get up and dress.” I felt I could not have heard her aright. “Get up and dress?” “Yes.” I turned on the pillow with a little moan, and at this juncture Jeeves entered with the vital oolong. I clutched at it like a drowning man at a straw hat. A deep sip or two, and I felt--I won’t say restored, because a birthday party like Pongo Twistleton’s isn’t a thing you get restored after with a mere mouthful of tea, but sufficiently the old Bertram to be able to bend the mind on this awful thing which had come upon me. And the more I bent same, the less could I grasp the trend of the scenario. “What is this, Aunt Dahlia?” I inquired. “It looks to me like tea,” was her response. “But you know best. You’re drinking it.”