‘Then may I tell Harold that the balloon’s going up?’ said Stiffy.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I mean it’s official about this vicarage?’
‘Certainly, certainly, certainly.’
‘Oh, Uncle Watkyn! How can I thank you?’
‘Quite all right, my dear,’ said Pop Bassett, more Dickensy than ever. ‘And now,’ he went on, parting from his moorings and making for the door, ‘you will excuse me, Stephanie, and you, Mr. Wooster. I must go to Madeline and -‘
‘Congratulate her?’
‘I was about to say dry her tears.’
‘If any.’
‘You think she will not be in a state of dejection?’
‘Would any girl be, who’s been saved by a miracle from having to marry Gussie Fink-Nottle?’
‘True. Very true,’ said Pop Bassett, and he was out of the room like one of those wing threequarters who, even if they can’t learn to give the reverse pass, are fast.
If there had been any uncertainty as to whether Sir Watkyn Bassett had done a buck-and-wing dance, there was none about Stiffy doing one now. She pirouetted freely, and the dullest eye could discern that it was only the fact that she hadn’t one on that kept her from strewing roses from her hat. I had seldom seen a young shrimp so above herself. And I, having Stinker’s best interests at heart, packed all my troubles in the old kitbag for the time being and rejoiced with her. If there’s one thing Bertram Wooster is and always has been nippy at, it’s forgetting his personal worries when a pal is celebrating some stroke of good fortune.
For some time Stiffy monopolized the conversation, not letting me get a word in edgeways. Women are singularly gifted in this respect. The frailest of them has the lung power of a gramophone record and the flow of speech of a Regimental Sergeant Major. I have known my Aunt Agatha to go on calling me names long after you would have supposed that both breath and inventiveness would have given out.
Her theme was the stupendous bit of good luck which was about to befall Stinker’s new parishioners, for they would be getting not only the perfect vicar, a saintly character who would do the square thing by their souls, but in addition the sort of vicar’s wife you dream about. It was only when she paused after drawing a picture of herself doling out soup to the deserving poor and asking in a gentle voice after their rheumatism that I was able to rise to a point of order. In the midst of all the joyfulness and back-slapping a sobering thought had occurred to me.
‘I agree with you,’ I said, ‘that this would appear to be the happy ending, and I can quite see how you have arrived at the conclusion that it’s the maddest merriest day of all the glad new year, but there’s something you ought to give a thought to, and it seems to me you’re overlooking it.’
‘What’s that? I didn’t think I’d missed anything.’
‘This promise of Pop Bassett’s to give you the vicarage.’
‘All in order, surely? What’s your kick?’
‘I was only thinking that, if I were you, I’d get it in writing.’
This stopped her as if she had bumped into a prop forward. The ecstatic animation faded from her face, to be replaced by the anxious look and the quick chewing of the lower lip. It was plain that I had given her food for thought.
‘You don’t think Uncle Watkyn would double-cross us?’
‘There are no limits to what your foul Uncle Watkyn can do, if the mood takes him,’ I responded gravely. ‘I wouldn’t trust him an inch. Where’s Stinker?’
‘Out on the lawn, I think.’
‘Then get hold of him and bring him here and have Pop Bassett embody the thing in the form of a letter.’
‘I suppose you know you’re making my flesh creep?’
‘Merely pointing out the road to safety.’
She mused awhile, and the lower lip got a bit more chewing done to it.
‘All right,’ she said at length. Til fetch Harold.’
‘And it wouldn’t hurt to bring a couple of lawyers, too,’ I said as she whizzed past me.