Right Ho, Jeeves

“Still, no doubt Time, the great healer----” “Time, the great healer, be blowed. I’ve got to get a cheque for five hundred pounds out of him for Milady’s Boudoir by August the third at the latest.” I was concerned. Apart from a nephew’s natural interest in an aunt’s refined weekly paper, I had always had a soft spot in my heart for Milady’s Boudoir ever since I contributed that article to it on What the Well-Dressed Man is Wearing. Sentimental, possibly, but we old journalists do have these feelings. “Is the Boudoir on the rocks?” “It will be if Tom doesn’t cough up. It needs help till it has turned the corner.” “But wasn’t it turning the corner two years ago?” “It was. And it’s still at it. Till you’ve run a weekly paper for women, you don’t know what corners are.” “And you think the chances of getting into uncle--into my uncle by marriage’s ribs are slight?” “I’ll tell you, Bertie. Up till now, when these subsidies were required, I have always been able to come to Tom in the gay, confident spirit of an only child touching an indulgent father for chocolate cream. But he’s just had a demand from the income-tax people for an additional fifty-eight pounds, one and threepence, and all he’s been talking about since I got back has been ruin and the sinister trend of socialistic legislation and what will become of us all.” I could readily believe it. This Tom has a peculiarity I’ve noticed in other very oofy men. Nick him for the paltriest sum, and he lets out a squawk you can hear at Land’s End. He has the stuff in gobs, but he hates giving up.