P G Wodehouse – Man Upstairs

Mr. Galloway rapped on the table, and ordered another kümmel.

“Marguerite Parker!” he roared dreamily, rolling the words round his tongue, like port.

“Marguerite Parker!” exclaimed Rollo, bounding in his chair.

His uncle met his eye sternly.

“That was the name I said. You seem to know it. Perhaps you have something to say against the lady. Eh? Have you? Have you? I warn you to be careful. What do you know of Miss Parker? Speak!”

“Er-no, no. Oh, no! I just know the name, that’s all. I-I rather think I met her once at lunch. Or it may have been somebody else. I know it was someone.”

He plunged at his glass. His uncle’s gaze relaxed its austerity.

“I hope you will meet her many more times at lunch, my boy. I hope you will come to look upon her as a second mother.”

This was where Rollo asked if he might have a little more brandy.

When the restorative came he drank it at a gulp; then looked across at his uncle. The great man still mused.

“Er-when is it to be?” asked Rollo. “The wedding, and all that?”

“Hardly before the Fall, I think. No, not before the Fall. I shall be busy till then. I have taken no steps in the matter yet.”

“No steps? You mean-? Haven’t you-haven’t you proposed?”

“I have had no time. Be reasonable, my boy; be reasonable.”

“Oh!” said Rollo.

He breathed a long breath. A suspicion of silver lining had become visible through the clouds.

“I doubt,” said Mr. Galloway, meditatively, “if I shall be able to find time till the end of the week. I am very busy. Let me see. To-morrow? No. Meeting of shareholders. Thursday? Friday? No. No, it will have to stand over till Saturday. After Saturday’s matinée. That will do excellently.”

There is a dramatic spectacle to be observed every day in this land of ours which, though deserving of recognition, no artist has yet pictured on canvas. We allude to the suburban season-ticket holder’s sudden flash of speed. Everyone must have seen at one time or another a happy, bright-faced season- ticket holder strolling placidly towards the station, humming, perhaps, in his light-heartedness, some gay air. He feels secure. Fate cannot touch him, for he has left himself for once plenty of time to catch that 8.50, for which he has so often sprinted like the gazelle of the prairie. As he strolls, suddenly his eye falls on the church clock. The next moment with a passionate cry he is endeavouring to lower his record for the fifty-yard dash. All the while his watch has been fifteen minutes slow.

In just such a case was Rollo Finch. He had fancied that he had plenty of time. And now, in an instant, the fact was borne in upon him that he must hurry.

For the greater part of the night of his uncle’s dinner he lay sleepless, vainly endeavouring to find a way out of the difficulty. It was not till early morning that he faced the inevitable. He hated to abandon the schedule. To do so meant changing a well-ordered advance into a forlorn hope. But circumstances compelled it. There are moments when speed alone can save love’s season-ticket holder.

On the following afternoon he acted. It was no occasion for stint. He had to condense into one day the carefully-considered movements of two weeks, and to the best of his ability he did so. He bought three bouquets, a bracelet, and a gold Billiken with ruby eyes, and sent them to the theatre by messenger-boy. With them went an invitation to supper.

Then, with the feeling that he had done all that was possible, he returned to his flat and waited for the hour.

He dressed with more than usual care that night. Your wise general never throws away a move. He was particular about his tie. As a rule, Wilson selected one for him. But there had been times when Wilson had made mistakes. One could not rely absolutely on Wilson’s taste in ties. He did not blame him. Better men than Wilson had gone wrong over an evening tie. But to-night there must be no taking of chances.