Free Right Ho, Jeeves by P.G. Wodehouse

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 be thinking of food. Material, my elbow! As a matter of fact, I’m particularly spiritual.”
    “Quite.”
    “I don’t see any harm in wondering what Anatole was going to give us for dinner. Do you?”
    “Of course not. A mere ordinary tribute of respect to a great artist.”
    “Exactly.”
    “All the same–-”
    “Well?”
    “I was only going to say that it seems a pity that the frail craft of love should come a stinker like this when a few manly words of contrition–-”
    He stared at me.
    “You aren’t suggesting that I should climb down?”
    “It would be the fine, big thing, old egg.”
    “I wouldn’t dream of climbing down.”
    “But, Tuppy–-”
    “No. I wouldn’t do it.”
    “But you love her, don’t you?”
    This touched the spot. He quivered noticeably, and his mouth twisted. Quite the tortured soul.
    “I’m not saying I don’t love the little blighter,” he said, obviously moved. “I love her passionately. But that doesn’t alter the fact that I consider that what she needs most in this world is a swift kick in the pants.”
    A Wooster could scarcely pass this. “Tuppy, old man!”
    “It’s no good saying ‘Tuppy, old man’.”
    “Well, I do say ‘Tuppy, old man’. Your tone shocks me. One raises the eyebrows. Where is the fine, old, chivalrous spirit of the Glossops.”
    “That’s all right about the fine, old, chivalrous spirit of the Glossops. Where is the sweet, gentle, womanly spirit of the Angelas? Telling a fellow he was getting a double chin!”
    “Did she do that?”
    “She did.”
    “Oh, well, girls will be girls. Forget it, Tuppy. Go to her and make it up.”
    He shook his head.
    “No. It is too late. Remarks have been passed about my tummy which it is impossible to overlook.”
    “But, Tummy—Tuppy, I mean—be fair. You once told her her new hat made her look like a Pekingese.”
    “It did make her look like a Pekingese. That was not vulgar abuse. It was sound, constructive criticism, with no motive behind it but the kindly desire to keep her from making an exhibition of herself in public. Wantonly to accuse a man of puffing when he goes up a fight of stairs is something very different.”
    I began to see that the situation would require all my address and ingenuity. If the wedding bells were ever to ring out in the little church of Market Snodsbury, Bertram had plainly got to put in some shrewdish work. I had gathered, during my conversation with Aunt Dahlia, that there had been a certain amount of frank speech between the two contracting parties, but I had not realized