P G Wodehouse – Man Upstairs

Maud was hurt and anxious. In a mere acquaintance this blithe attitude would have been welcome. It would have helped her to enjoy her evening. But from Arthur at that particular moment she looked for something else. Why was he cheerful? Only a few hours ago she had been-yes, flirting with another man before his very eyes. What right had he to be cheerful? He ought to be heated, full of passionate demands for an explanation-a flushed, throaty thing to be coaxed back into a good temper and then forgiven-all this at great length-for having been in a bad one. Yes, she told herself, she had wanted certainty one way or the other, and here it was. Now she knew. He no longer cared for her.

She trembled.

“Cold?” said Arthur. “Let’s walk. Evenings beginning to draw in now. Lum-da-diddley-ah. That’s what I call a good tune. Give me something lively and bright. Dumty-umpty-iddley-ah. Dum tum-”

“Funny thing-” said Maud, deliberately.

“What’s a funny thing?”

“The gentleman in the brown suit whose hands I did this afternoon-”

“He was,” agreed Arthur, brightly. “A very funny thing.”

Maud frowned. Wit at the expense of Hairy Ainus was one thing-at her own another.

“I was about to say,” she went on precisely, “that it was a funny thing, a coincidence, seeing that I was already engaged, that the gentleman in the brown suit whose hands I did this afternoon should have asked me to come here, to the White City, with him to-night.”

For a moment they walked on in silence. To Maud it seemed a hopeful silence. Surely it must be the prelude to an outburst.

“Oh!” he said, and stopped.

Maud’s heart gave a leap. Surely that was the old tone?

A couple of paces, and he spoke again.

“I didn’t hear him ask you.”

His voice was disappointingly level.

“He asked me after you had gone out to lunch.”

“It’s a nuisance,” said Arthur, cheerily, “when things clash like that. But perhaps he’ll ask you again. Nothing to prevent you coming here twice. Well repays a second visit, I always say. I think-”

“You shouldn’t,” said a voice behind him. “It hurts the head. Well, kid, being shown a good time?”

The possibility of meeting Mr. Shute had not occurred to Maud. She had assumed that, being aware that she would be there with another, he would have stayed away. It may, however, be remarked that she did not know Mr. Shute. He was not one of your sensitive plants. He smiled pleasantly upon her, looking very dapper in evening dress and a silk hat that, though a size too small for him, shone like a mirror.

Maud hardly knew whether she was glad or sorry to see him. It did not seem to matter much now either way. Nothing seemed to matter much, in fact. Arthur’s cheery acceptance of the news that she received invitations from others had been like a blow, leaving her numb and listless.

She made the introductions. The two men eyed each other.

“Pleased to meet you,” said Mr. Shute.

“Weather keeps up,” said Arthur.

And from that point onward Mr. Shute took command.

It is to be assumed that this was not the first time that Mr. Shute had made one of a trio in these circumstances, for the swift dexterity with which he lost Arthur was certainly not that of a novice. So smoothly was it done that it was not until she emerged from the Witching Waves, guided by the pugilist’s slim but formidable right arm, that Maud realised that Arthur had gone.

She gave a little cry of dismay. Secretly she was beginning to be somewhat afraid of Mr. Shute. He was showing signs of being about to step out of the role she had assigned to him and attempt something on a larger scale. His manner had that extra touch of warmth which makes all the difference.

“Oh! He’s gone!” she cried.

“Sure,” said Mr. Shute. “He got a hurry-call from the Uji Village. The chief’s cousin wants a hair-cut.”

“We must find him. We must.”

“Surest thing you know,” said Mr. Shute. “Plenty of time.”

“We must find him.”