Much Obliged, Jeeves

an American train, — in short, one by no means adapted to the ears of the gentler sex; especially a member of that sex who probably ran the local Watch Committee.
    It was, consequently, a somewhat damped Bertram Wooster whom the maid ushered into the drawing-room, and my pep was in no way augmented by the first sight I had of mine hostess. Mrs. McCorkadale was what I would call a grim woman. Not so grim as my Aunt Agatha, perhaps, for that could hardly be expected, but certainly well up in the class of Jael the wife of Heber and the Madame Whoever-it-was who used to sit and knit at the foot of the guillotine during the French Revolution. She had a beaky nose, tight thin lips, and her eye could have been used for splitting logs in the teak forests of Borneo. Seeing her steadily and seeing her whole, as the expression is, one marvelled at the intrepidity of Mr. McCorkadale in marrying her — A man obviously whom nothing could daunt.
    However, I had come there to be-jolly and genial, and jolly and genial I was resolved to be. Actors will tell you that on these occasions, when the soul is a-twitter and the nervous system not like mother makes it, the thing to do is to take a deep breath. I took three, and immediately felt much better.
    ‘Good morning, good morning, good morning,’ I said. ‘Good morning,’ I added, rubbing it in, for it was my policy to let there be no stint.
    ‘Good morning,’ she replied, and one might have totted things up as so far, so good. But if I said she said it cordially, I would be deceiving my public. The impression I get was that the sight of me hurt her in some sensitive spot. The woman, it was plain, shared Spode’s view of what was needed to make England a land fit for heroes to live in.
    Not being able to uncork the story and finding the way her eye was going through me like a dose of salts more than a little trying to my already dented sang froid, I might have had some difficulty in getting the conversation going, but fortunately I was full of good material just waiting to be decanted. Over an after-dinner smoke on the previous night Ginger had filled me in on what his crowd proposed to do when they got down to it. They were going, he said, to cut taxes to the bone, straighten out our foreign policy, double our export trade, have two cars in the garage and two chickens in the pot for everyone and give the pound the shot in the arm it had been clamouring for for years. Than which, we both agreed, nothing could be sweeter, and I saw no reason to suppose that the McCorkadale gargoyle would not feel the same. I began, therefore, by asking her if she had a vote, and she said Yes, of course, and I said Well, that was fine, because if she hadn’t had, the point of my arguments would have been largely lost.
    ‘An excellent thing, I’ve always thought, giving women the vote,’ I proceeded heartily, and she said — rather nastily, it seemed to me — that she was glad I approved. ‘When you cast yours, if cast is the word I want, I strongly advise you to cast it in favour of Ginger Winship.’
    ‘On what do you base that advice?’ She couldn’t have given me a better cue. She had handed it to me on a plate with watercress round it. Like a flash I went into my sales talk, mentioning Ginger’s attitude towards taxes, our foreign policy, our export trade, cars in the garage, chickens in the pot and first aid for the poor old pound, and was shocked to observe an entire absence of enthusiasm on her part. Not a ripple appeared on the stern and rockbound coast of her map. She looked like Aunt Agatha listening to the boy Wooster trying to explain away a drawing-room window broken by a cricket ball.
    I pressed her closely, or do I mean keenly.
    ‘You want taxes cut, don’t you?’
    ‘I do.’
    ‘And our foreign policy bumped up? ‘
    ‘Certainly.’
    ‘And our exports doubled and a stick of dynamite put under the pound? I’ll bet you do. Then vote for Ginger Winship, the man who with his hand on the helm of the ship of state will steer England to prosperity and happiness, bringing back once more the spacious days of Good Queen Bess.’ This was a line of talk that Jeeves had roughed out for my use. There was also some rather good stuff about this sceptred isle and this other Eden, demi-something, but I had forgotten it. ‘You can’t say that wouldn’t be nice,’ I said.
    A moment before, I wouldn’t have thought it possible that she could look more like Aunt Agatha than she