Right Ho, Jeeves · Chapter 20 (2/2)

“I don’t absolutely talk about boils. I merely mentioned that Job had them. Yes, I agree with you, Aunt Dahlia, that things are not looking too oojah-cum-spiff at the moment, but be of good cheer. A Wooster is seldom baffled for more than the nonce.”

“You rather expect to be coming along shortly with another of your schemes?”

“At any minute.”

She sighed resignedly.

“I thought as much. Well, it needed but this. I don’t see how things could possibly be worse than they are, but no doubt you will succeed in making them so. Your genius and insight will find the way. Carry on, Bertie. Yes, carry on. I am past caring now. I shall even find a faint interest in seeing into what darker and profounder abysses of hell you can plunge this home. Go to it, lad.⁠ ⁠… What’s that stuff you’re eating?”

“I find it a little difficult to classify. Some sort of paste on toast. Rather like glue flavoured with beef extract.”

“Gimme,” said Aunt Dahlia listlessly.

“Be careful how you chew,” I advised. “It sticketh closer than a brother.⁠ ⁠… Yes, Jeeves?”

The man had materialized on the carpet. Absolutely noiseless, as usual.

“A note for you, sir.”

“A note for me, Jeeves?”

“A note for you, sir.”

“From whom, Jeeves?”

“From Miss Bassett, sir.”

“From whom, Jeeves?”

“From Miss Bassett, sir.”

“From Miss Bassett, Jeeves?”

“From Miss Bassett, sir.”

At this point, Aunt Dahlia, who had taken one nibble at her whatever-it-was-on-toast and laid it down, begged us⁠—a little fretfully, I thought⁠—for heaven’s sake to cut out the crosstalk vaudeville stuff, as she had enough to bear already without having to listen to us doing our imitation of the Two Macs. Always willing to oblige, I dismissed Jeeves with a nod, and he flickered for a moment and was gone. Many a spectre would have been less slippy.

“But what,” I mused, toying with the envelope, “can this female be writing to me about?”

“Why not open the damn thing and see?”

“A very excellent idea,” I said, and did so.

“And if you are interested in my movements,” proceeded Aunt Dahlia, heading for the door, “I propose to go to my room, do some Yogi deep breathing, and try to forget.”

“Quite,” I said absently, skimming p. 1. And then, as I turned over, a sharp howl broke from my lips, causing Aunt Dahlia to shy like a startled mustang.

“Don’t do it!” she exclaimed, quivering in every limb.

“Yes, but dash it⁠—”

“What a pest you are, you miserable object,” she sighed. “I remember years ago, when you were in your cradle, being left alone with you one day and you nearly swallowed your rubber comforter and started turning purple. And I, ass that I was, took it out and saved your life. Let me tell you, young Bertie, it will go very hard with you if you ever swallow a rubber comforter again when only I am by to aid.”

“But, dash it!” I cried. “Do you know what’s happened? Madeline Bassett says she’s going to marry me!”

“I hope it keeps fine for you,” said the relative, and passed from the room looking like something out of an Edgar Allan Poe story.