Stiff Upper Lip Jeeves

and heartiness simply stepped up the gloom in which my yesterday’s chat with Madeline Bassett had plunged me.
    As may well be imagined, her obiter dicta, as I believe they’re called, had got right in amongst me. This, it was plain, was no mere lovers’ tiff, to be cleaned up with a couple of tears and a kiss or two, but a real Class A rift which, if prompt steps were not taken through the proper channels, would put the lute right out of business and make it as mute as a drum with a hole in it. And the problem of how those steps were to be taken defeated me. Two iron wills had clashed. On the one hand we had Madeline’s strong anti-flesh-food bias, on the other Gussie’s firm determination to get all the cuts off the joint that were coming to him. What, I asked myself, would the harvest be, and I was still shuddering at the thought of what the future might hold, when Jeeves trickled in with the morning cup of tea.
    ‘Eh?’ I said absently, as he put it on the table. Usually I spring at the refreshing fluid like a seal going after a slice of fish. Preoccupied, if you know what I mean. Or distrait, if you care to put it that way.
    ‘I was saying that we are fortunate in having a fine day for the school treat, sir.’
    I sat up with a jerk, upsetting the cuppa as deftly as if I’d been the Rev. H.P. Pinker.
    ‘Is it today?’
    ‘This afternoon, sir.’
    I groaned one of those hollow ones.
    ‘It needed but this, Jeeves.’
    ‘Sir?’
    ‘The last straw. I’d enough on my mind already.’
    ‘There is something disturbing you, sir?’
    ‘You’re right there is. Hell’s foundations are quivering. What do you call it when a couple of nations start off by being all palsy-walsy and then begin calling each other ticks and bounders?’
    ‘Relations have deteriorated would be the customary phrase, sir.’
    ‘Well, relations have deteriorated between Miss Bassett and Gussie. He, as we know, was already disgruntled, and now she’s disgruntled, too. She has taken exception to a derogatory crack he made about the sunset. She thinks highly of sunsets, and he told her they made him sick. Can you believe this?’
    ‘Quite readily, sir. Mr. Fink-Nottle was commenting to me on the sunset yesterday evening. He said it looked so like a slice of underdone beef that it tortured him to see it. One can appreciate his feelings.’
    ‘I dare say, but I wish he’d keep them to himself. He also appears to have spoken disrespectfully of the Blessed Damozel. Who’s the Blessed Damozel, Jeeves? I don’t seem to have heard of her.’
    ‘The heroine of a poem by the late Dante Gabriel Rossetti, sir. She leaned out from the gold bar of Heaven.’
    ‘Yes, I gathered that. That much was specified.’
    ‘Her eyes were deeper than the depths of waters stilled at even. She had three lilies in her hand, and the stars in her hair were seven.’
    ‘Oh, were they? Well, be that as it may, Gussie said she made him sick, too, and Miss Bassett’s as sore as a sunburned neck.’
    ‘Most disturbing, sir.’
    ‘Disturbing is the word. If things go on the way they are, no bookie would give odds of less than a hundred to eight on this betrothal lasting another week. I’ve seen betrothals in my time, many of them, but never one that looked more likely to come apart at the seams than that of Augustus Fink-Nottle and Madeline, daughter of Sir Watkyn and the late Lady Bassett. The suspense is awful. Who was the chap I remember reading about somewhere, who had a sword hanging over him attached to a single hair?’
    ‘Damocles, sir. It is an old Greek legend.’
    ‘Well, I know just how he felt. And with this on my mind, I’m expected to attend a ruddy school treat. I won’t go.’
    ‘Your absence may cause remark, sir.’
    ‘I don’t care. They won’t get a smell of me. I’m oiling out, and let them make of it what they will.’
    Apart from anything else, I was remembering the story I had heard Pongo Twistleton tell one night at the Drones, illustrative of how unbridled passions are apt to become at these binges. Pongo got mixed up once in a school treat down in Somersetshire, and his description of how, in order to promote a game called ‘Is Mr. Smith at Home?’ he had had to put his head in a sack and allow the younger generation to prod him with sticks had held the smoking-room spellbound. At a place like Totleigh, where even on normal days human life was not safe, still worse excesses were to be expected. The glimpse or two I