Right Ho, Jeeves

There was a death-where-is-thy-sting-fullness about her manner which I found distasteful. It isn’t often that I score off Jeeves in the devastating fashion just described, and when I do I like to see happy, smiling faces about me. “Tails up, Aunt Dahlia,” I urged buoyantly. “Tails up be dashed,” was her sombre response. “I’ve just been talking to Tom.” “Telling him?” “No, listening to him. I haven’t had the nerve to tell him yet.” “Is he still upset about that income-tax money?” “Upset is right. He says that Civilisation is in the melting-pot and that all thinking men can read the writing on the wall.” “What wall?” “Old Testament, ass. Belshazzar’s feast.” “Oh, that, yes. I’ve often wondered how that gag was worked. With mirrors, I expect.” “I wish I could use mirrors to break it to Tom about this baccarat business.” I had a word of comfort to offer here. I had been turning the thing over in my mind since our last meeting, and I thought I saw where she had got twisted. Where she made her error, it seemed to me, was in feeling she had got to tell Uncle Tom. To my way of thinking, the matter was one on which it would be better to continue to exercise a quiet reserve. “I don’t see why you need mention that you lost that money at baccarat.” “What do you suggest, then? Letting Milady’s Boudoir join Civilisation in the melting-pot. Because that is what it will infallibly do unless I get a cheque by next week. The printers have been showing a nasty spirit for months.”