Leave It to Psmith - P. G. Wodehouse (i wanna iguana read aloud .TXT) 📗

She was somehow feeling a disinclination to allow the conversation to die down, and yet she had an idea that, unless it was permitted to die down, it might become embarrassingly intimate. Subconsciously, she was endeavouring to analyse her views on this long, calm person who had so recently added himself to the list of those who claimed to look upon her with affection.

“I confess it came as something of a shock to me also,” said Psmith. “In fact, the revelation that there was this other, deeper side to her nature materially altered the opinion I had formed of her. I found myself warming to Miss Peavey. Something that was akin to respect began to stir within me. Indeed, I almost wish that we had not been compelled to deprive her of the jewels.”

“ ‘We’?” said Eve. “I’m afraid I didn’t do much.”

“Your attitude was exactly right,” Psmith assured her. “You afforded just the moral support which a man needs in such a crisis.”

Silence fell once more. Eve returned to her thoughts. And then, with a suddenness which surprised her, she found that she had made up her mind.

“So you’re going to be married?” she said.

Psmith polished his monocle thoughtfully.

“I think so,” he said. “I think so. What do you think?”

Eve regarded him steadfastly. Then she gave a little laugh.

“Yes,” she said, “I think so, too.” She paused. “Shall I tell you something?”

“You could tell me nothing more wonderful than that.”

“When I met Cynthia in Market Blandings, she told me what the trouble was which made her husband leave her. What do you suppose it was?”

“From my brief acquaintance with Comrade McTodd, I would hazard the guess that he tried to stab her with the bread-knife. He struck me as a murderous-looking specimen.”

“They had some people to dinner, and there was chicken, and Cynthia gave all the giblets to the guests, and her husband bounded out of his seat with a wild cry, and, shouting ‘You know I love those things better than anything in the world!’ rushed from the house, never to return!”

“Precisely how I would have wished him to rush, had I been Mrs. McTodd.”

“Cynthia told me that he had rushed from the house, never to return, six times since they were married.”

“May I mention⁠—in passing⁠—” said Psmith, “that I do not like chicken giblets?”

“Cynthia advised me,” proceeded Eve, “if ever I married, to marry someone eccentric. She said it was such fun. Well, I don’t suppose I am ever likely to meet anyone more eccentric than you, am I?”

“I think you would be unwise to wait on the chance.”

“The only thing is⁠ ⁠… ,” said Eve reflectively. “ ‘Mrs. Smith’⁠ ⁠… It doesn’t sound much, does it?”

Psmith beamed encouragingly.

“We must look into the future,” he said. “We must remember that I am only at the beginning of what I am convinced is to be a singularly illustrious career. ‘Lady Psmith’ is better⁠ ⁠… ‘Baroness Psmith’ better still⁠ ⁠… And⁠—who knows?⁠—‘The Duchess of Psmith’⁠ ⁠…”

“Well, anyhow,” said Eve, “you were wonderful just now, simply wonderful. The way you made one spring⁠ ⁠…”

“Your words,” said Psmith, “are music to my ears, but we must not forget that the foundations of the success of the manoeuvre were laid by Comrade Threepwood. Had it not been for the timely incursion of his leg⁠ ⁠…”

“Good gracious!” cried Eve. “Freddie! I had forgotten all about him!”

“The right spirit,” said Psmith. “Quite the right spirit.”

“We must go and let him out.”

“Just as you say. And then he can come with us on the stroll I was about to propose that we should take through the woods. It is a lovely night, and what could be jollier than to have Comrade Threepwood prattling at our side? I will go and let him out at once.”

“No, don’t bother,” said Eve.

XIV Psmith Accepts Employment

The golden stillness of a perfect summer morning brooded over Blandings Castle and its adjacent pleasure-grounds. From a sky of unbroken blue the sun poured down its heartening rays on all those roses, pinks, pansies, carnations, hollyhocks, columbines, larkspurs, London pride and Canterbury bells which made the gardens so rarely beautiful. Flannelled youths and maidens in white serge sported in the shade; gay cries arose from the tennis-courts behind the shrubbery; and birds, bees, and butterflies went about their business with a new energy and zip. In short, the casual observer, assuming that he was addicted to trite phrases, would have said that happiness reigned supreme.

But happiness, even on the finest mornings, is seldom universal. The strolling youths and maidens were happy; the tennis-players were happy; the birds, bees, and butterflies were happy. Eve, walking in pleasant meditation on the terrace, was happy. Freddie Threepwood was happy as he lounged in the smoking-room and gloated over the information, received from Psmith in the small hours, that his thousand pounds was safe. Mr. Keeble, writing to Phyllis to inform her that she might clinch the purchase of the Lincolnshire farm, was happy. Even Head-gardener Angus McAllister was as happy as a Scotsman can ever be. But Lord Emsworth, drooping out of the library window, felt only a nervous irritation more in keeping with the blizzards of winter than with the only fine July that England had known in the last ten years.

We have seen his lordship in a similar attitude and a like frame of mind on a previous occasion; but then his melancholy had been due to the loss of his glasses. This morning these were perched firmly on his nose and he saw all things clearly. What was causing his gloom now was the fact that some ten minutes earlier his sister Constance had trapped him in the library, full of jarring rebuke on the subject of the dismissal of Rupert Baxter, the world’s most efficient secretary. It was to avoid her compelling eye that Lord Emsworth had turned to the window. And what he saw from that window thrust him even deeper into the abyss of gloom. The sun, the birds, the bees, the butterflies, and the flowers called