P G Wodehouse – Man Upstairs

From the very start, from the moment when he revealed the fact that his income, salary and private means included, amounted to less than two hundred pounds, he had realized that this was going to be one of his failures. It was the gruesome Early Victorianness of it all that took the heart out of him. Mr. Sheppherd had always reminded him of a heavy father out of a three-volume novel, but, compared with his demeanour as he listened now, his attitude hitherto had been light and whimsical. Until this moment Owen had not imagined that this sort of thing ever happened nowadays outside the comic papers. By the end of the second minute he would not have been surprised to find himself sailing through the air, urged by Mr. Sheppherd’s boot, his transit indicated by a dotted line and a few stars.

Mr. Sheppherd’s manner was inclined to bleakness.

“This is most unfortunate,” he said. “Most unfortunate I have my daughter’s happiness to consider. It is my duty as a father.” He paused. “You say you have no prospects? I should have supposed that your uncle-? Surely, with his influence-?”

“My uncle shot his bolt when he got me into the bank. That finished him, as far as I’m concerned. I’m not his only nephew, you know. There are about a hundred others, all trailing him like bloodhounds.”

Mr. Sheppherd coughed the small cough of disapproval. He was feeling more than a little aggrieved.

He had met Owen for the first time at dinner at the house of his uncle Henry, a man of unquestioned substance, whose habit it was to invite each of his eleven nephews to dinner once a year. But Mr. Sheppherd did not know this. For all he knew, Owen was in the habit of hobnobbing with the great man every night. He could not say exactly that it was sharp practice on Owen’s part to accept his invitation to call, and, having called, to continue calling long enough to make the present deplorable situation possible; but he felt that it would have been in better taste for the young man to have effaced himself and behaved more like a bank-clerk and less like an heir.

“I am exceedingly sorry for this, Mr. Bentley,” he said, “but you will understand that I cannot-It is, of course, out of the question. It would be best, in the circumstances, I think, if you did not see my daughter again-”

“She’s waiting in the passage outside,” said Owen, simply.

“-after to-day. Good-bye.”

Owen left the room. Audrey was hovering in the neighbourhood of the door. She came quickly up to him, and his spirits rose, as they always did, at the sight of her.

“Well?” she said.

He shook his head.

“No good,” he said.

Audrey considered the problem for a moment, and was rewarded with an idea.

“Shall I go in and cry?”

“It wouldn’t be any use.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“He said I mustn’t see you again.”

“He didn’t mean it.”

“He thinks he did.”

Audrey reflected.

“We shall simply have to keep writing, then. And we can talk on the telephone. That isn’t seeing each other. Has your bank a telephone?”

“Yes. But-”

“That’s all right, then. I’ll ring you up every day.”

“I wish I could make some money,” said Owen, thoughtfully. “But I seem to be one of those chaps who can’t. Nothing I try comes off. I’ve never drawn anything except a blank in a sweep. I spent about two pounds on sixpenny postal orders when the Limerick craze was on, and didn’t win a thing. Once when I was on tour I worked myself to a shadow, dramatizing a novel. Nothing came of that, either.”

“What novel?”

“A thing called White Roses, by a woman named Edith Butler.”

Audrey looked up quickly.

“I suppose you knew her very well? Were you great friends?”

“I didn’t know her at all. I’d never met her. I just happened to buy the thing at a bookstall, and thought it would make a good play. I expect it was pretty bad rot. Anyhow, she never took the trouble to send it back or even to acknowledge receipt.”