P G Wodehouse – Man Upstairs

“Where do we keep our ties, Wilson?” he asked.

“The closet to the right of the door, sir. The first twelve shallow shelves, counting from the top, sir. They contain a fair selection of our various cravats. Replicas in bulk are to be found in the third nest of drawers in your dressing-room, sir.”

“I only want one, my good man. I’m not a regiment. Ah! I stake all on this one. Not a word, Wilson. No discussion. This is the tie I wear. What’s the time?”

“Eight minutes to eleven, sir.”

“I must be off. I shall be late. I sha’n’t want you any more to-night. Don’t wait for me.”

“Very good, sir.”

Rollo left the room, pale but determined, and hailed a taxi.

It is a pleasant spot, the vestibule of the Carlton Hotel. Glare-glitter-distant music-fair women-brave men. But one can have too much of it, and as the moments pass, and she does not arrive, a chill

seems to creep into the atmosphere. We wait on, hoping against hope, and at last, just as waiters and commissionaires are beginning to eye us with suspicion, we face the truth. She is not coming. Then out we crawl into cold, callous Pall Mall, and so home. You have been through it, dear reader, and so have I.

And so, at eleven forty-five that evening, had Rollo. For a full three-quarters of an hour he waited, scanning the face of each new arrival with the anxious scrutiny of a lost dog seeking its master; but at fourteen minutes to twelve the last faint flicker of hope had died away. A girl may be a quarter of an hour late for supper. She may be half an hour late. But there is a limit, and to Rollo’s mind forty-five minutes passed it. At ten minutes to twelve a uniformed official outside the “Carlton” signalled to a taxi-cab, and there entered it a young man whose faith in Woman was dead.

Rollo meditated bitterly as he drove home. It was not so much the fact that she had not come that stirred him. Many things may keep a girl from supper. It was the calm way in which she had ignored the invitation. When you send a girl three bouquets, a bracelet, and a gold Billiken with ruby eyes, you do not expect an entire absence of recognition. Even a penny-in-the-slot machine treats you better than that. It may give you hairpins when you want matches but at least it takes some notice of you.

He was still deep in gloomy thought when he inserted his latchkey and opened the door of his flat.

He was roused from his reflections by a laugh from the sitting-room. He started. It was a pleasant laugh, and musical, but it sent Rollo diving, outraged, for the handle of the door. What was a woman doing in his sitting-room at this hour? Was his flat an hotel?

The advent of an unbidden guest rarely fails to produce a certain gêne. The sudden appearance of Rollo caused a dead silence.

It was broken by the fall of a chair on the carpet as Wilson rose hurriedly to his feet.

Rollo stood in the doorway, an impressive statue of restrained indignation. He could see the outlying portions of a girl in blue at the further end of the table, but Wilson obscured his vision.

“Didn’t expect you back, sir,” said Wilson.

For the first time in the history of their acquaintance his accustomed calm seemed somewhat ruffled.

“So I should think,” said Rollo. “I believe you, by George!”

“You had better explain, Jim,” said a dispassionate voice from the end of the table.

Wilson stepped aside.

“My wife, sir,” he said, apologetically, but with pride.

“Your wife!”

“We were married this morning, sir.”

The lady nodded cheerfully at Rollo. She was small and slight, with an impudent nose and a mass of brown hair.

“Awfully glad to meet you,” she said, cracking a walnut.

Rollo gaped.

She looked at him again.

“We’ve met, haven’t we? Oh yes, I remember. We met at lunch once. And you sent me some flowers. It was ever so kind of you,” she said, beaming.