Right Ho, Jeeves

“You don’t follow. Listen. It’s an understood thing, I take it, that Uncle Tom foots the Boudoir bills. If the bally sheet has been turning the corner for two years, he must have got used to forking out by this time. Well, simply ask him for the money to pay the printers.” “I did. Just before I went to Cannes.” “Wouldn’t he give it to you?” “Certainly he gave it to me. He brassed up like an officer and a gentleman. That was the money I lost at baccarat.” “Oh? I didn’t know that.” “There isn’t much you do know.” A nephew’s love made me overlook the slur. “Tut!” I said. “What did you say?” “I said ‘Tut!’” “Say it once again, and I’ll biff you where you stand. I’ve enough to endure without being tutted at.” “Quite.” “Any tutting that’s required, I’ll attend to myself. And the same applies to clicking the tongue, if you were thinking of doing that.” “Far from it.” “Good.” I stood awhile in thought. I was concerned to the core. My heart, if you remember, had already bled once for Aunt Dahlia this evening. It now bled again. I knew how deeply attached she was to this paper of hers. Seeing it go down the drain would be for her like watching a loved child sink for the third time in some pond or mere. And there was no question that, unless carefully prepared for the touch, Uncle Tom would see a hundred Milady’s Boudoirs go phut rather than take the rap.