Free Right Ho, Jeeves by P.G. Wodehouse Page A

till now that matters had gone so far.
    The pathos of the thing gave me the pip. Tuppy had admitted in so many words that love still animated the Glossop bosom, and I was convinced that, even after all that occurred, Angela had not ceased to love him. At the moment, no doubt, she might be wishing that she could hit him with a bottle, but deep down in her I was prepared to bet that there still lingered all the old affection and tenderness. Only injured pride was keeping these two apart, and I felt that if Tuppy would make the first move, all would be well.
    I had another whack at it.
    “She’s broken-hearted about this rift, Tuppy.”
    “How do you know? Have you seen her?”
    “No, but I’ll bet she is.”
    “She doesn’t look it.”
    “Wearing the mask, no doubt. Jeeves does that when I assert my authority.”
    “She wrinkles her nose at me as if I were a drain that had got out of order.”
    “Merely the mask. I feel convinced she loves you still, and that a kindly word from you is all that is required.”
    I could see that this had moved him. He plainly wavered. He did a sort of twiddly on the turf with his foot. And, when he spoke, one spotted the tremolo in the voice:
    “You really think that?”
    “Absolutely.”
    “H’m.”
    “If you were to go to her–-”
    He shook his head.
    “I can’t do that. It would be fatal. Bing, instantly, would go my prestige. I know girls. Grovel, and the best of them get uppish.” He mused. “The only way to work the thing would be by tipping her off in some indirect way that I am prepared to open negotiations. Should I sigh a bit when we meet, do you think?”
    “She would think you were puffing.”
    “That’s true.”
    I lit another cigarette and gave my mind to the matter. And first crack out of the box, as is so often the way with the Woosters, I got an idea. I remembered the counsel I had given Gussie in the matter of the sausages and ham.
    “I’ve got it, Tuppy. There is one infallible method of indicating to a girl that you love her, and it works just as well when you’ve had a row and want to make it up. Don’t eat any dinner tonight. You can see how impressive that would be. She knows how devoted you are to food.”
    He started violently.
    “I am not devoted to food!”
    “No, no.”
    “I am not devoted to food at all.”
    “Quite. All I meant–-”
    “This rot about me being devoted to food,” said Tuppy warmly, “has got to stop. I am young and healthy and have a good appetite, but that’s not the same as being devoted to food. I admire Anatole as a master of his craft, and am always willing to consider anything he may put before me, but when you say I am devoted to food–-”
    “Quite, quite. All I meant was that if she sees you push away your dinner untasted, she will realize that your heart is aching, and will probably be the first to suggest blowing the all clear.”
    Tuppy was frowning thoughtfully.
    “Push my dinner away, eh?”
    “Yes.”
    “Push away a dinner cooked by Anatole?”
    “Yes.”
    “Push it away untasted?”
    “Yes.”
    “Let us get this straight. Tonight, at dinner, when the butler offers me a _ris de veau a la financiere_, or whatever it may be, hot from Anatole’s hands, you wish me to push it away untasted?”
    “Yes.”
    He chewed his lip. One could sense the struggle going on within. And then suddenly a sort of glow came into his face. The old martyrs probably used to look like that.
    “All right.”
    “You’ll do it?”
    “I will.”
    “Fine.”
    “Of course, it will be agony.”
    I pointed out the silver lining.
    “Only for the moment. You could slip down tonight, after everyone is in bed, and raid the larder.”
    He brightened.
    “That’s right. I could, couldn’t I?”
    “I expect there would be something cold there.”
    “There is something cold there,” said Tuppy, with growing cheerfulness. “A steak-and-kidney pie. We had it for lunch today. One of Anatole’s ripest. The thing I admire