Right Ho, Jeeves

“Quite, quite. All I meant was that if she sees you push away your dinner untasted, she will realize that your heart is aching, and will probably be the first to suggest blowing the all clear.” Tuppy was frowning thoughtfully. “Push my dinner away, eh?” “Yes.” “Push away a dinner cooked by Anatole?” “Yes.” “Push it away untasted?” “Yes.” “Let us get this straight. Tonight, at dinner, when the butler offers me a ris de veau à la financiere, or whatever it may be, hot from Anatole’s hands, you wish me to push it away untasted?” “Yes.” He chewed his lip. One could sense the struggle going on within. And then suddenly a sort of glow came into his face. The old martyrs probably used to look like that. “All right.” “You’ll do it?” “I will.” “Fine.” “Of course, it will be agony.” I pointed out the silver lining. “Only for the moment. You could slip down tonight, after everyone is in bed, and raid the larder.” He brightened. “That’s right. I could, couldn’t I?” “I expect there would be something cold there.” “There is something cold there,” said Tuppy, with growing cheerfulness. “A steak-and-kidney pie. We had it for lunch today. One of Anatole’s ripest. The thing I admire about that man,” said Tuppy reverently, “the thing that I admire so enormously about Anatole is that, though a Frenchman, he does not, like so many of these chefs, confine himself exclusively to French dishes, but is always willing and ready to weigh in with some good old simple English fare such as this steak-and-kidney pie to which I have alluded. A masterly pie, Bertie, and it wasn’t more than half finished. It will do me nicely.”