There was a death-where-is-thy-sting-fullness about her manner which I found distasteful. It isn't often that I score off Jeeves in the devastating fashion just described, and when I do I like to see happy, smiling faces about me.
Tails up, Aunt Dahlia, I urged buoyantly.
Tails up be dashed, was her sombre response. I've just been talking to Tom.
Telling him?
No, listening to him. I haven't had the nerve to tell him yet.
Is he still upset about that income-tax money?
Upset is right. He says that Civilisation is in the melting-pot and that all thinking men can read the writing on the wall.
What wall?
Old Testament, ass. Belshazzar's feast.
Oh, that, yes. I've often wondered how that gag was worked. With mirrors, I expect.
I wish I could use mirrors to break it to Tom about this baccarat business.
I had a word of comfort to offer here. I had been turning the thing over in my mind since our last meeting, and I thought I saw where she had got twisted. Where she made her error, it seemed to me, was in feeling she had got to tell Uncle Tom. To my way of thinking, the matter was one on which it would be better to continue to exercise a quiet reserve.
I don't see why you need mention that you lost that money at baccarat.
What do you suggest, then? LettingMilady's Boudoirjoin Civilisation in the melting-pot. Because that is what it will infallibly do unless I get a cheque by next week. The printers have been showing a nasty spirit for months.
You don't follow. Listen. It's an understood thing, I take it, that Uncle Tom foots theBoudoirbills. If the bally sheet has been turning the corner for two years, he must have got used to forking out by this time. Well, simply ask him for the money to pay the printers.
I did. Just before I went to Cannes.
Wouldn't he give it to you?
Certainly he gave it to me. He brassed up like an officer and a gentleman. That was the money I lost at baccarat.
Oh? I didn't know that.
There isn't much you do know.
A nephew's love made me overlook the slur.
Tut! I said.
What did you say?
I said 'Tut!'
Say it once again, and I'll biff you where you stand. I've enough to endure without being tutted at.
Quite.
Any tutting that's required, I'll attend to myself. And the same applies to clicking the tongue, if you were thinking of doing that.
Far from it.
Good.
I stood awhile in thought. I was concerned to the core. My heart, if you remember, had already bled once for Aunt Dahlia this evening. It now bled again. I knew how deeply attached she was to this paper of hers. Seeing it go down the drain would be for her like watching a loved child sink for the third time in some pond or mere.
And there was no question that, unless carefully prepared for the touch, Uncle Tom would see a hundredMilady's Boudoirsgo phut rather than take the rap.
Then I saw how the thing could be handled. This aunt, I perceived, must fall into line with my other clients. Tuppy Glossop was knocking off dinner to melt Angela. Gussie Fink-Nottle was knocking off dinner to impress the Bassett. Aunt Dahlia must knock off dinner to soften Uncle Tom. For the beauty of this scheme of mine was that there was no limit to the number of entrants. Come one, come all, the more the merrier, and satisfaction guaranteed in every case.
I've got it, I said. There is only one course to pursue. Eat less meat.
She looked at me in a pleading sort of way. I wouldn't swear that her eyes were wet with unshed tears, but I rather think they were, certainly she clasped her hands in piteous appeal.
Must you drivel, Bertie? Won't you stop it just this once? Just for tonight, to please Aunt Dahlia?
I'm not drivelling.
I dare say that to a man of your high standards it doesn't come under the head of drivel, but
I saw what had happened. I hadn't made myself quite clear.
It's all right, I said. Have no misgivings. This is the real Tabasco. When I said 'Eat less meat', what I meant was that you must refuse your oats at dinner tonight. Just sit there, looking blistered, and wave away each course as it comes with a weary gesture of resignation. You see what will happen. Uncle Tom will notice your loss of appetite, and I am prepared to bet that at the conclusion of the meal he will come to you and say 'Dahlia, darling'I take it he calls you 'Dahlia''Dahlia darling,' he will say, 'I noticed at dinner tonight that you were a bit off your feed. Is anything the matter, Dahlia, darling?' 'Why, yes, Tom, darling,' you will reply. 'It is kind of you to ask, darling. The fact is, darling, I am terribly worried.' 'My darling,' he will say
Aunt Dahlia interrupted at this point to observe that these Traverses seemed to be a pretty soppy couple of blighters, to judge by their dialogue. She also wished to know when I was going to get to the point.
I gave her a look.
'My darling,' he will say tenderly, 'is there anything I can do?' To which your reply will be that there jolly well isviz. reach for his cheque-book and start writing.
I was watching her closely as I spoke, and was pleased to note respect suddenly dawn in her eyes.
But, Bertie, this is positively bright.
I told you Jeeves wasn't the only fellow with brain.
I believe it would work.
It's bound to work. I've recommended it to Tuppy.
Young Glossop?
In order to soften Angela.
Splendid!
And to Gussie Fink-Nottle, who wants to make a hit with the Bassett.
Well, well, well! What a busy little brain it is.
Always working, Aunt Dahlia, always working.
You're not the chump I took you for, Bertie.
When did you ever take me for a chump?
Oh, some time last summer. I forget what gave me the idea. Yes, Bertie, this scheme is bright. I suppose, as a matter of fact, Jeeves suggested it.
Jeeves did not suggest it. I resent these implications. Jeeves had nothing to do with it whatsoever.
Well, all right, no need to get excited about it. Yes, I think it will work. Tom's devoted to me.
Who wouldn't be?
I'll do it.
And then the rest of the party trickled in, and we toddled down to dinner.
Conditions being as they were at Brinkley CourtI mean to say, the place being loaded down above the Primsoll mark with aching hearts and standing room only as regarded tortured soulsI hadn't expected the evening meal to be particularly effervescent. Nor was it. Silent. Sombre. The whole thing more than a bit like Christmas dinner on Devil's Island.
I was glad when it was over.
What with having, on top of her other troubles, to rein herself back from the trough, Aunt Dahlia was a total loss as far as anything in the shape of brilliant badinage was concerned. The fact that he was fifty quid in the red and expecting Civilisation to take a toss at any moment had caused Uncle Tom, who always looked a bit like a pterodactyl with a secret sorrow, to take on a deeper melancholy. The Bassett was a silent bread crumbler. Angela might have been hewn from the living rock. Tuppy had the air of a condemned murderer refusing to make the usual hearty breakfast before tooling off to the execution shed.
And as for Gussie Fink-Nottle, many an experienced undertaker would have been deceived by his appearance and started embalming him on sight.
This was the first glimpse I had had of Gussie since we parted at my flat, and I must say his demeanour disappointed me. I had been expecting something a great deal more sparkling.
At my flat, on the occasion alluded to, he had, if you recall, practically given me a signed guarantee that all he needed to touch him off was a rural setting. Yet in this aspect now I could detect no indication whatsoever that he was about to round into mid-season form. He still looked like a cat in an adage, and it did not take me long to realise that my very first act on escaping from this morgue must be to draw him aside and give him a pep talk.