“Wish she’d enclose a cheque,” said Ukridge. “She could spare it. You’ve no idea, Garny, old man, how disgustingly and indecently rich that woman is. She lives in Kensington on an income which would do her well in Park Lane. But as a touching proposition she had proved almost negligible. She steadfastly refuses to part.”
“I think she would, dear, if she knew how much we needed it. But I don’t like to ask her. She’s so curious, and says such horrid things.”
“She does,” agreed Ukridge, gloomily. He spoke as one who had had experience. “Two for you, Garny. All the rest for me. Ten of them, and all bills.”
He spread the envelopes out on the table, and drew one at a venture.
“Whiteley’s,” he said. “Getting jumpy. Are in receipt of my favour of the 7th inst. and are at a loss to understand. It’s rummy about these blighters, but they never seem able to understand a damn thing. It’s hard! You put things in words of one syllable for them, and they just goggle and wonder what it all means. They want something on account. Upon my Sam, I’m disappointed with Whiteley’s. I’d been thinking in rather a kindly spirit of them, and feeling that they were a more intelligent lot than Harrod’s. I’d had half a mind to give Harrod’s the miss-in-baulk and hand my whole trade over to these fellows. But not now, dash it! Whiteley’s have disappointed me. From the way they write, you’d think they thought I was doing it for fun. How can I let them have their infernal money when there isn’t any? Here’s one from Dorchester. Smith, the chap we got the gramophone from. Wants to know when I’m going to settle up for sixteen records.”
“Sordid brute!”
I wanted to get on with my own correspondence, but Ukridge held me with a glittering eye.
“The chicken-men, the dealer people, you know, want me to pay for the first lot of hens. Considering that they all died of roop, and that I was going to send them back anyhow after I’d got them to hatch out a few chickens, I call that cool. I mean to say, business is business. That’s what these fellows don’t seem to understand. I can’t afford to pay enormous sums for birds which die off quicker than I can get them in.”
“I shall never speak to Aunt Elizabeth again,” said Mrs. Ukridge suddenly.
She had dropped the letter she had been reading, and was staring indignantly in front of her. There were two little red spots on her cheeks.
“What’s the matter, old chap?” inquired Ukridge affectionately, glancing up from his pile of bills and forgetting his own troubles in an instant. “Buck up! Aunt Elizabeth been getting on your nerves again? What’s she been saying this time?”
Mrs. Ukridge left the room with a sob. Ukridge sprang at the letter.
“If that demon doesn’t stop writing her infernal letters and upsetting Millie, I shall strangle her with my bare hands, regardless of her age and sex.” He turned over the pages of the letter till he came to the passage which had caused the trouble. “Well, upon my Sam! Listen to this, Garny, old horse. ‘You tell me nothing regarding the success of this chicken farm of yours, and I confess that I find your silence ominous. You know my opinion of your husband. He is perfectly helpless in any matter requiring the exercise of a little common-sense and business capability.’ ” He stared at me, amazed. “I like that! ‘Pon my soul, that is really rich! I could have believed almost anything of that blighted female, but I did think she had a reasonable amount of intelligence. Why, you know that it’s just in matters requiring common-sense and business capability that I come out really strong.”
“Of course, old man,” I replied dutifully. “The woman’s a fool.”
“That’s what she calls me two lines further on. No wonder Millie was upset. Why can’t these cats leave people alone?”
“Oh, woman, woman!” I threw in helpfully.
“Always interfering–”
“Rotten!”
“And backbiting–”
“Awful!”
“I shan’t stand it.”
“I shouldn’t!”
“Look here! On the next page she calls me a gaby!”