P G Wodehouse – Man Upstairs

He puffed at his pipe, and looked dreamily at her through the smoke.

“Way over in England, Peggy, there’s a county called Worcestershire. And somewhere near the edge of that there’s a grey house with gables, and there’s a lawn and a meadow and a shrubbery, and an orchard and a rose-garden, and a big cedar on the terrace before you get to the rose-garden. And if you climb to the top of that cedar, you can see the river through the apple trees in the orchard. And in the distance there are the hills. And-”

“Of all the rube joints!” exclaimed Peggy, in deep disgust. “Why, a day of that would be about twenty- three hours and a bit too long for me. Broadway for mine! Put me where I can touch Forty-Second Street without overbalancing, and then you can leave me. I never thought you were such a hayseed, George.”

“Don’t worry, Peggy. It’ll be a long time, I expect, before I go there. I’ve got to make my fortune first.”

“Getting anywhere near the John D. class yet?”

“I’ve still some way to go. But things are moving, I think. Do you know, Peggy, you remind me of a little Billiken, sitting on that table?”

“Thank you, George. I always knew my mouth was rather wide, but I did think I had Billiken to the bad. Do you do that sort of Candid Friend stunt with her?” She pointed to the photograph on the mantelpiece. It was the first time since the night when they had met that she had made any allusion to it. By silent agreement the subject had been ruled out between them. “By the way, you never told me her name?”

“Halliday,” said Rutherford, shortly.

“What else?”

“Alice.”

“Don’t bite at me, George! I’m not hurting you. Tell me about her. I’m interested. Does she live in the grey house with the pigs and chickens and all them roses, and the rest of the rube outfit?”

“No.”

“Be chummy, George. What’s the matter with you?”

“I’m sorry, Peggy,” he said. “I’m a fool. It’s only that it all seems so damned hopeless! Here am I, earning about half a dollar a year, and-Still, it’s no use kicking, is it? Besides, I may make a home-run with my writing one of these days. That’s what I meant when I said you were a Billiken, Peggy. Do you know, you’ve brought me luck. Ever since I met you, I’ve been doing twice as well. You’re my mascot.”

“Bully for me! We’ve all got our uses in the world, haven’t we? I wonder if it would help any if I was to kiss you, George?”

“Don’t you do it. One mustn’t work a mascot too hard.”

She jumped down, and came across the room to where he sat, looking down at him with the round, grey eyes that always reminded him of a kitten’s.

“George!”

“Yes?”

“Oh, nothing!”

She turned away to the mantelpiece, and stood gazing at the photograph, her back towards him.

“George!”

“Hullo?”

“Say, what colour eyes has she got?”

“Grey.”

“Like mine?”

“Darker than yours.”

“Nicer than mine?”

“Don’t you think we might talk about something else?”

She swung round, her fists clenched, her face blazing.

“I hate you!” she cried. “I do! I wish I’d never seen you! I wish-”

She leaned on the mantelpiece, burying her face in her arms, and burst into a passion of sobs. Rutherford leaped up, shocked and helpless. He sprang to her, and placed a hand gently on her shoulder.

“Peggy, old girl-”

She broke from him.

“Don’t you touch me! Don’t you do it! Gee, I wish I’d never seen you!”

She ran to the door, darted through, and banged it behind her.

Rutherford remained where he stood, motionless. Then, almost mechanically, he felt in his pocket for matches, and relit his pipe.

Half an hour passed. Then the door opened slowly. Peggy came in. She was pale, and her eyes were red. She smiled-a pathetic little smile.

“Peggy!”

He took a step towards her.

She held out her hand.

“I’m sorry, George. I feel mean.”

“Dear old girl, what rot!”

“I do. You don’t know how mean I feel. You’ve been real nice to me, George. Thought I’d look in and say I was sorry. Good night, George!”