Right Ho, Jeeves

I saw that he was struggling with some powerful emotion. “And what about my side of the thing?” he demanded, in a voice choked with feeling. “Your side?” “You don’t suppose,” said Tuppy, with rising vehemence, “that I would have exposed this dashed synthetic shark for the flatfish it undoubtedly was if there had not been causes that led up to it. What induced me to speak as I did was the fact that Angela, the little squirt, had just been most offensive, and I seized the opportunity to get a bit of my own back.” “Offensive?” “Exceedingly offensive. Purely on the strength of my having let fall some casual remark--simply by way of saying something and keeping the conversation going--to the effect that I wondered what Anatole was going to give us for dinner, she said that I was too material and ought not always to be thinking of food. Material, my elbow! As a matter of fact, I’m particularly spiritual.” “Quite.” “I don’t see any harm in wondering what Anatole was going to give us for dinner. Do you?” “Of course not. A mere ordinary tribute of respect to a great artist.” “Exactly.” “All the same----” “Well?” “I was only going to say that it seems a pity that the frail craft of love should come a stinker like this when a few manly words of contrition----” He stared at me. “You aren’t suggesting that I should climb down?” “It would be the fine, big thing, old egg.”