‘Well, tell him to stop sitting and come to the study,’ she said, for all the world as if she had been Arnold Abney M.A. announcing that he would like to see Wooster after morning prayers. Quite took me back to the old days.
To get to the summerhouse you have to go across the lawn, the one Spode was toying with the idea of buttering me over, and the first thing I saw as I did so, apart from the birds, bees, butterflies, and what not which put in their leisure hours there, was L. P. Runkle lying in the hammock wrapped in slumber, with Aunt Dahlia in a chair at his side. When she sighted me, she rose, headed in my direction and drew me away a yard or two, at the same time putting a finger to her lips.
‘He’s asleep,’ she said.
A snore from the hammock bore out the truth of this, and I said I could see he was and what a revolting spectacle he presented, and she told me for heaven’s sake not to bellow like that. Somewhat piqued at being accused of bellowing by a woman whose lightest whisper was like someone calling the cattle home across the sands of Dee, I said I wasn’t bellowing, and she said
‘Well, don’t.’
‘He may be in a nasty mood if he’s woken suddenly.’
It was an astute piece of reasoning, speaking well for her grasp of strategy and tactics, but with my quick intelligence I spotted a flaw in it to which I proceeded to call her attention.
‘On the other hand, if you don’t wake him, how can you plead Tuppy’s cause?’
‘I said suddenly, ass. It’ll be all right if I let Nature take its course.’
‘Yes, you may have a point there. Will Nature be long about it, do you think?’
‘How do I know?’
‘I was only wondering. You can’t sit there the rest of the afternoon.’
‘I can if necessary.’
‘Then I’ll leave you to it. I’ve got to go and look for Ginger. Have you seen him?’
‘He came by just now with his secretary on his way to the summerhouse. He told me he had some dictation to do. Why do you want him? ‘
‘I don’t particularly, though always glad of his company. Florence told me to find him. She has been giving thim hell and is anxious to give him some more. Apparently –‘
Here she interrupted me with a sharp ‘Hist!’, for L. P. Runkle had stirred in his sleep and it looked as if life was returning to the inert frame. But it proved to be a false alarm, and I resumed my remarks.
‘Apparently he failed to wow the customers at the Chamber of Commerce lunch, where she had been counting on him being a regular… who was the Greek chap?’
‘Bertie, if I wasn’t afraid of waking Runkle, I’d strike you with a blunt instrument, if I had a blunt instrument. What Greek chap?’
‘That’s what I’m asking you. He chewed pebbles.’
‘Do you mean Demosthenes?’
‘You may be right. I’ll take it up later with Jeeves. Florence was expecting Ginger to be a regular Demosthenes, if that was the name, which seems unlikely, though I was at school with a fellow called Gianbattista, and he let her down, and this has annoyed her. You know how she speaks her mind, when annoyed.’
‘She speaks her mind much too much,’ said the relative severely. ‘I wonder Ginger stands it.’
It so happened that I was in a position to solve the problem that was perplexing her. The facts governing the relationship of guys and dolls had long been an open book to me. I had given deep thought to the matter, and when I give deep thought to a matter perplexities are speedily ironed out.
‘He stands it, aged relative, because he loves her, and you wouldn’t be far wrong in saying that love conquers all. I know what you mean, of course. It surprises you that a fellow of his thews and sinews should curl up in a ball when she looks squiggle-eyed at him and receive her strictures, if that’s the word I want, with the meekness of a spaniel rebuked for bringing a decaying bone into the drawing-room. What you overlook is the fact that in the matter of finely chiselled profile, willowy figure and platinum-blonde hair , she is well up among the top ten, and these things weigh with a man like Ginger. You and I, regarding Florence coolly, pencil her in as too bossy for human consumption, but he gets a different slant. It’s the old business of what Jeeves calls the psychology of the individual. Very possibly the seeds of rebellion start to seethe within him when she speaks her mind, but he catches sight of her sideways or gets a glimpse of her hair, assuming for purposes of argument that she isn’t wearing a hat, or notices once again that she has as many curves as a scenic railway, and he feels that it’s worth putting up with a spot of mind-speaking in order to make her his own. His love, you see, is not wholly spiritual. There’s a bit of the carnal mixed up in it.’