Much Obliged, Jeeves

laughing love god straightened things out between Madeline and Spode, even if he had talked out of turn about stars and daisy chains. Having finished the gasper, I was about to return and resume conversation with the aged relative, when from within there came the voice o£ Seppings, now apparently restored to health, and what he was saying froze me in every limb. I couldn’t have become stiffer if I had been Lot’s wife, whose painful story I had had to read up when I won that Scripture Knowledge prize.
    What he was saying ran as follows:
    ‘Mrs. McCorkadale, madam.’

CHAPTER Ten

    Leaning against the side of the house, I breathed rather in the manner copyrighted by the hart which pants for cooling streams when heated in the chase. The realization of how narrowly I had missed having to mingle again with this blockbusting female barrister kept me Lot’s wife d for what seemed an hour or so, though I suppose it can’t have been more than a few seconds. Then gradually I ceased to be a pillar of salt and was able to concentrate on finding out what on earth Ma McCorkadale’s motive was in paying us this visit. The last place, I mean to say, where you would have expected to find her. Considering how she stood in regard to Ginger, it was as if Napoleon had dropped in for a chat with Wellington on the eve of Waterloo.
    I have had occasion to mention earlier the advantages as a listening-post afforded by the just-outside-the-french-window spot where I was standing. Invisible to those within, I could take in all they were saying, as I had done with Spode and L. P. Runkle. Both had come through loud and clear, and neither had had a notion that Bertram Wooster was on the outskirts, hearing all. As I could hardly step in and ask her to repeat any of her remarks which I didn’t quite catch, it was fortunate that the McCorkadale’s voice was so robust, while Aunt Dahlia’s, of course, would be audible if you were 94 at Hyde Park Corner and she in Piccadilly Circus. I have often thought that the deaf adder I read about when I won my Scripture Knowledge prize would have got the message right enough if the aged relative had been one of the charmers. I was able to continue leaning against the side of the house in full confidence that I shouldn’t miss a syllable of either protagonist’s words.
    The proceedings started with a couple of Good mornings, Aunt Dahlia’s the equivalent of ‘What the hell? ‘, and then the McCorkadale, as if aware that it was up to her to offer a word of explanation, said she had called to see Mr. Winship on a matter of great importance.
    ‘Is he in?’
    Here was a chance for the ancestor to get one up by retorting that he jolly well would be after the votes had been counted, but she let it go, merely saying No, he had gone out, and the McCorkadale said she was sorry.
    ‘I would have preferred to see him in person, but you, I take it, are his hostess, so I can tell you and you will tell him.’
    This seemed fair enough to me, and I remember thinking that these barristers put things well, but it appeared to annoy the aged relative.
    ‘I am afraid I do not understand you,’ she said, and I knew she was getting steamed up, for if she had been her calm self, she would have said ‘Sorry, I don’t get you.’
    ‘If you will allow me to explain. I can do so in a few simple words. I have just had a visit from a slimy slinking slug.’
    I drew myself up haughtily. Not much good, of course, in the circs, but the gesture seemed called for. One does not object to fair criticism, but this was mere abuse.
    I could think of nothing in our relations which justified such a description of me. My views on barristers and their way of putting things changed sharply. Whether or not Aunt Dahlia bridled, as the expression is, I couldn’t say, but I think she must have done, for her next words were straight from the deep freeze.
    ‘Are you referring to my nephew Bertram Wooster?’
    The McCorkadale did much to remove the bad impression her previous words had made on me. She said her caller had not given his name, but she was sure he could not have been Mrs. Travers’s nephew.
    ‘He was a very common man,’ she said, and with the quickness which is so characteristic of me I suddenly got on to it that she must be alluding to Bingley, who had been ushered into her presence immediately after I had left. I could understand her applying those derogatory adjectives to Bingley. And the noun slug, just right. Once