Free Mulliner Nights by P.G. Wodehouse

a certain innocent deception, but at times like this one cannot
afford to be too nice in ones methods. By the way, under what name did you make
your appearance here?’
    ‘I used my
own.
    ‘I would have
preferred Polkinghorne or Gooch or Withers,’ said the Bishop pensively. ‘They
sound more legal. However, that is a small matter. The essential thing is that
I may rely on you to — er — to—?’
    ‘To stick
around?’
    ‘Exactly. To
adhere. From now on, my boy, you must be my constant shadow. And if, as I
trust, our efforts are rewarded, you will not find me ungrateful. In the course
of a lifetime I have contrived to accumulate no small supply of this world’s
goods, and if there is any little venture or enterprise for which you require a
certain amount of capital—’
    ‘I am glad,’
said Lancelot, ‘that you brought this up, Uncle Theodore. As it so happens, I
am badly in need of five hundred pounds — and could, indeed, do with a thousand.’
    The Bishop
grasped his hand.
    ‘See me
through this ordeal, my dear boy,’ he said, ‘and you shall have it. For what
purpose do you require this money?’
    ‘I want to get
married.’
    ‘Ugh!’ said
the Bishop, shuddering strongly. ‘Well, well,’ he went on, recovering himself, ‘it
is no affair of mine. No doubt you know your own mind best. I must confess,
however, that the mere mention of the holy state occasions in me an indefinable
sinking feeling. But then, of course, you are not proposing to marry Lady
Widdrington.’
    And nor,’
cried Lancelot heartily, ‘are you, uncle — not while I’m around. Tails up,
Uncle Theodore, tails up!’
    ‘Tails up!’
repeated the Bishop dutifully, but he spoke the words without any real ring of
conviction in his voice.
     
    It was
fortunate that, in the days which followed, my cousin Edward’s son Lancelot was
buoyed up not only by the prospect of collecting a thousand pounds, but also by
a genuine sympathy and pity for a well-loved uncle. Otherwise, he must have
faltered and weakened.
    To a sensitive
man — and all artists are sensitive — there are few things more painful than
the realization that he is an unwelcome guest. And not even if he had had the
vanity of a Narcissus could Lancelot have persuaded himself that he was persona
grata at Widdrington Manor.
    The march of
civilization has done much to curb the natural ebullience of woman. It has
brought to her the power of self-restraint. In emotional crises nowadays women
seldom give physical expression to their feelings; and neither Lady Widdrington
nor her mother, the aged Mrs Pulteney-Banks, actually struck Lancelot or spiked
him with a knitting-needle. But there were moments when they seemed only by a
miracle of strong will to check themselves from such manifestations of dislike.
    As the days
went by, and each day the young man skilfully broke up a promising tête-à-tête, the atmosphere grew more tense and electric. Lady Widdrington spoke
dreamily of the excellence of the train service between Bottleby-in-the-Vale
and London, paying a particularly marked tribute to the 8.45 a.m.
express. Mrs Pulteney-Banks mumbled from among her shawls of great gowks — she
did not specify more exactly, courteously refraining from naming names — who
spent their time idling in the country (where they were not wanted) when their
true duty and interest lay in the metropolis. The cat Percy, by word and look,
continued to affirm his low opinion of Lancelot.
    And, to make
matters worse, the young man could see that his principal’s morale was
becoming steadily lowered. Despite the uniform success of their manoeuvres, it
was evident that the strain was proving too severe for the Bishop. He was
plainly cracking. A settled hopelessness had crept into his demeanour. More and
more had he come to resemble a rabbit who, fleeing from a stoat, draws no cheer
from the reflection that he is all right so far, but flings up his front paws
in a gesture of despair, as if to ask what