Right Ho, Jeeves

“I know you did, Jeeves,” I said, laughing down from lazy eyelids and nicking a speck of dust from the irreproachable Mechlin lace at my wrists. “But I didn’t. You will find it on a chair in the hall in a brown-paper parcel.” The information that his low manoeuvres had been rendered null and void and that the thing was on the strength after all, must have been the nastiest of jars, but there was no play of expression on his finely chiselled to indicate it. There very seldom is on Jeeves’s f-c. In moments of discomfort, as I had told Tuppy, he wears a mask, preserving throughout the quiet stolidity of a stuffed moose. “You might just slide down and fetch it, will you?” “Very good, sir.” “Right ho, Jeeves.” And presently I was sauntering towards the drawing-room with the good old j. nestling snugly abaft the shoulder blades. And Dahlia was in the drawing-room. She glanced up at my entrance. “Hullo, eyesore,” she said. “What do you think you’re made up as?” I did not get the purport. “The jacket, you mean?” I queried, groping. “I do. You look like one of the chorus of male guests at Abernethy Towers in Act 2 of a touring musical comedy.” “You do not admire this jacket?” “I do not.” “You did at Cannes.” “Well, this isn’t Cannes.” “But, dash it----” “Oh, never mind. Let it go. If you want to give my butler a laugh, what does it matter? What does anything matter now?”