Free Sunset at Blandings by P.G. Wodehouse

matter is that you would now give anything
if you could recall those cruel words.’
    ‘What
cruel words?’
    ‘You
know damn well what cruel words.’
    ‘Must
we discuss this?’
    ‘It’s
what I came here to do.’
    ‘You’re
wasting your time.’
    ‘Oh,
don’t be a little idiot.’
    ‘Thank
you,’ said Vicky, and she played a few bars of an old English folk song in a
marked manner.
    It
occurred to Gally that he was allowing exasperation to interfere with his
technique. Instead of telling the tale he was letting this tête-à-tête
degenerate into a vulgar brawl. He hastened to repair his blunder.
    ‘I’m
sorry I called you an idiot.’
    ‘Don’t
mention it.’
    ‘I was
not myself.’
    ‘Who
were you?’
    Sticky
going, Gally felt, extremely sticky going. The tale he told would have to be a
good one. And fortunately his brain, working well, had come up with a pippin.
    ‘The
fact is,’ he said, ignoring the question, which would not have been easy to
answer, ‘this unfortunate affair has woken old memories. There was a similar
tragedy in my own life. Two loving hearts sundered owing to a foolish quarrel,
and nothing to be done about it because we were both too proud to make the
first move. It happened when I was a very young man and sadly lacking in sense.
I loved a girl. I won’t tell you her name. I will call her Deirdre.’
    ‘I’ve
often wondered how that name was spelled,’ said Vicky meditatively. ‘I suppose
you start off with a capital D and then just trust to luck. Was she beautiful?’
    ‘Beautiful
indeed. Lovely chestnut hair, a superb figure and large melting eyes, in colour
half way between a rook’s egg and a bill stamp. [36] I loved her passionately, and
it was my dearest wish to call her mine. But it was not to be.’
    ‘Why
wasn’t it?’
    ‘Because
of my unfortunate sense of humour. She was the daughter of a bishop, very
strict in her views.’
    ‘And
you told her one of your Pelican Club limericks?’
    ‘No,
not that. But I took her to dinner at a fashionable restaurant and thinking to
amuse her I marched round the table with a soup plate on my head and a stick of
celery in my hand, giving what I thought was a droll impersonation of a trooper
of the Blues on guard at Whitehall. It was a little thing I had often done on
Saturday nights at the Pelican to great applause, but she was deeply offended.’
    ‘She
thought you were blotto?’
    ‘She
did. And she swept out and married an underwriter at Lloyd’s. I could have
explained, but I was too proud.’
    ‘Her
cruel words had been too cruel?’
    ‘Exactly.’
    ‘How
very sad.’
    ‘I thought
you would think so.’
    ‘Though
it would be a lot sadder if you hadn’t told me that Dolly Henderson was the
only woman you had ever wanted to marry. Deirdre must have slipped your memory.’
    It was
not easy to disconcert Gaily. Not only his sisters Constance, Hermione and
Florence, but dozens of bookmakers, policemen, three-card men and jellied eel
sellers had tried to do it through the years and failed, but these simple words
of Vicky’s succeeded in doing so. As he stood polishing his eyeglass, for once
in his life unable to speak, she continued her remarks.
    ‘You
certainly have nerve, Gally. The idea of trying to tell me the tale. One
smiles.’
    Gally
was resilient. Not for him the shamefaced blush a the sheepish twiddling of the
fingers. Recovering quickly from what had been an unpleasant shock, he spoke in
a voice very different from his former melting tones.
    ‘Oh,
one does, does one?’ he said. ‘Well, one won’t smile long. Listen to me, and I’m
not telling the tale now. Jeff refused to sit in on your chuckleheaded idea of
eloping for a very good reason.’
    ‘He
said he had to stay on and paint a pig.’
    ‘That
wasn’t his only reason. He also didn’t want to have to see you starving in the
gutter. He had no job and no prospects and he knew that you had a good appetite
and needed three squares a day.’