Right Ho, Jeeves

“No, thanks.” “I say to myself----” “But not to me.” “Do listen for a second.” “I won’t.” “Right ho, then. I am dumb.” “And have been from a child.” I perceived that little good could result from continuing the discussion. I waved a hand and shrugged a shoulder. “Very well, Aunt Dahlia,” I said, with dignity, “if you don’t want to be in on the ground floor, that is your affair. But you are missing an intellectual treat. And, anyway, no matter how much you may behave like the deaf adder of Scripture which, as you are doubtless aware, the more one piped, the less it danced, or words to that effect, I shall carry on as planned. I am extremely fond of Angela, and I shall spare no effort to bring the sunshine back into her heart.” “Bertie, you abysmal chump, I appeal to you once more. Will you please lay off? You’ll only make things ten times as bad as they are already.” I remember reading in one of those historical novels once about a chap--a buck he would have been, no doubt, or a macaroni or some such bird as that--who, when people said the wrong thing, merely laughed down from lazy eyelids and flicked a speck of dust from the irreproachable Mechlin lace at his wrists. This was practically what I did now. At least, I straightened my tie and smiled one of those inscrutable smiles of mine. I then withdrew and went out for a saunter in the garden.