“And on top of all that you have the nerve, the insolence, to imagine that you can use me as a punching bag to work your bad temper off! You have the immortal rind to suppose that I will stand for being nagged and bullied by you whenever your suicidal way of living brings on an attack of indigestion! You have the supreme gall to fancy that you can talk as you please to me!
“Very well! I’ve had enough of it. I resign! If you want this scarab of yours recovered let somebody else do it. I’ve retired from business.”
He took another step toward the door. A shaking hand clutched at his sleeve.
“My boy–my dear boy–be reasonable!”
Ashe was intoxicated with his own oratory. The sensation of bullyragging a genuine millionaire was new and exhilarating. He expanded his chest and spread his feet like a colossus.
“That’s all very well,” he said, coldly disentangling himself from the hand. “You can’t get out of it like that. We have got to come to an understanding. The point is that if I am to be subjected to your–your senile malevolence every time you have a twinge of indigestion, no amount of money could pay me to stop on.”
“My dear boy, it shall not occur again. I was hasty.”
Mr. Peters, with agitated fingers, relit the stump of his cigar.
“Throw away that cigar!”
“My boy!”
“Throw it away! You say you were hasty. Of course you were hasty; and as long as you abuse your digestion you will go on being hasty. I want something better than apologies. If I am to stop here we must get to the root of things. You must put yourself in my hands as though I were your doctor. No more cigars. Every morning regular exercises.”
“No, no!”
“Very well!”
“No; stop! Stop! What sort of exercises?”
“I’ll show you to-morrow morning. Brisk walks.”
“I hate walking.”
“Cold baths.”
“No, no!”
“Very well!”
“No; stop! A cold bath would kill me at my age.”
“It would put new life into you. Do you consent to the cold baths? No? Very well!”
“Yes, yes, yes!”
“You promise?”
“Yes, yes!”
“All right, then.”
The distant sound of the dinner gong floated in.
“We settled that just in time.” said Ashe.
Mr. Peters regarded him fixedly.
“Young man,” he said slowly, “if, after all this, you fail to recover my Cheops for me I’ll–I’ll–By George, I’ll skin you!”
“Don’t talk like that,” said Ashe. “That’s another thing you have got to remember. If my treatment is to be successful you must not let yourself think in that way. You must exercise self-control mentally. You must think beautiful thoughts.”
“The idea of skinning you is a beautiful thought!” said Mr. Peters wistfully.
…
In order that their gayety might not be diminished–and the food turned to ashes in their mouths by the absence from the festive board of Mr. Beach, it was the custom for the upper servants at Blandings to postpone the start of their evening meal until dinner was nearly over above-stairs. This enabled the butler to take his place at the head of the table without fear of interruption, except for the few moments when coffee was being served.
Every night shortly before half-past eight–at which hour Mr. Beach felt that he might safely withdraw from the dining-room and leave Lord Emsworth and his guests to the care of Merridew, the under-butler, and James and Alfred, the footmen, returning only for a few minutes to lend tone and distinction to the distribution of cigars and liqueurs–those whose rank entitled them to do so made their way to the housekeeper’s room, to pass in desultory conversation the interval before Mr. Beach should arrive, and a kitchen maid, with the appearance of one who has been straining at the leash and has at last managed to get free, opened the door, with the announcement: “Mr. Beach, if you please, dinner is served.” On which Mr. Beach, extending a crooked elbow toward the housekeeper, would say, “Mrs. Twemlow!” and lead the way, high and disposedly, down the passage, followed in order of rank by the rest of the company, in couples, to the steward’s room.