Free The Jeeves Omnibus - Vol 2: (Jeeves & Wooster): No. 2 by P.G. Wodehouse

of the right hand and the gentle laying of the left on the collarbone.
    ‘Well, Tuppy, old man,’ I said. ‘How are you, old man?’
    My commiseration deepened as I spoke the words, for there had been no lighting up of the eye, no answering pressure of the palm, no sign whatever, in short, of any disposition on his part to do spring dances at the sight of an old friend. The man seemed sandbagged. Melancholy, as I remember Jeeves saying once about Pongo Twistleton when he was trying to knock off smoking, had marked him for her own. Not that I was surprised, of course. In the circs, no doubt, a certain moodiness was only natural.
    I released the hand, ceased to knead the shoulder, and, producing the old case, offered him a cigarette.
    He took it dully.
    ‘Are you here, Bertie?’ he asked.
    ‘Yes, I’m here.’
    ‘Just passing through, or come to stay?’
    I thought for a moment. I might have told him that I had arrived at Brinkley Court with the express intention of bringing Angela and himself together once more, of knitting up the severed threads, and so on and so forth; and for perhaps half the time required for the lighting of a gasper I had almost decided to do so. Then, I reflected, better, on the whole, perhaps not. To broadcast the fact that I proposed to take him and Angela and play on them as on a couple of stringed instruments might have been injudicious. Chaps don’t always like being played on as on a stringed instrument.
    ‘It all depends,’ I said. ‘I may remain. I may push on. My plans are uncertain.’
    He nodded listlessly, rather in the manner of a man who did not give a damn what I did, and stood gazing out over the sunlit garden. In build and appearance, Tuppy somewhat resembles a bulldog, and his aspect now was that of one of these fine animals who has just been refused a slice of cake. It was not difficult for a man of my discernment to read what was in his mind, and it occasioned me no surprise, therefore, when his next words had to do with the subject marked with a cross on the agenda paper.
    ‘You’ve heard of this business of mine, I suppose? Me and Angela?’
    ‘I have, indeed, Tuppy, old man.’
    ‘We’ve bust up.’
    ‘I know. Some little friction, I gather,
in re
Angela’s shark.’
    ‘Yes. I said it must have been a flatfish.’
    ‘So my informant told me.’
    ‘Who did you hear it from?’
    ‘Aunt Dahlia.’
    ‘I suppose she cursed me properly?’
    ‘Oh, no. Beyond referring to you in one passage as “this blasted Glossop”, she was, I thought, singularly temperate in her language for a woman who at one time hunted regularly with the Quorn. All the same, I could see, if you don’t mind me saying so, old man, that she felt you might have behaved with a little more tact.’
    ‘Tact!’
    ‘And I must admit I rather agreed with her. Was it nice, Tuppy, was it quite kind to take the bloom off Angela’s shark like that? You must remember that Angela’s shark is very dear to her. Could you not see what a sock on the jaw it would be for the poor child to hear it described by the man to whom she had given her heart as a flatfish?’
    I saw that he was struggling with some powerful emotion.
    ‘And what about my side of the thing?’ he demanded, in a voice choked with feeling.
    ‘Your side?’
    ‘You don’t suppose,’ said Tuppy, with rising vehemence, ‘that I would have exposed this dashed synthetic shark for the flatfish it undoubtedly was if there had not been causes that led up to it. What induced me to speak as I did was the fact that Angela, the little squirt, had just been most offensive, and I seized the opportunity to get a bit of my own back.’
    ‘Offensive?’
    ‘Exceedingly offensive. Purely on the strength of my having let fall some casual remark – simply by way of saying something and keeping the conversation going – to the effect that I wondered what Anatole was going to give us for dinner, she said that I was too material and ought not always to