Pelham Wodehouse - Spring Fever

"Not much."

"Odd. Percy's girl was. It was at that point that he swung the deal. 'You do not answer,' he cried, drawing her close to him, 'but your silence speaks for you as sweetly as any words. May I take my happiness for granted, love? Your cheek is white, but I will change that lily to a rose.' So saying, he pressed his lips to hers and she, with a low, soft cry, half sigh, half sob, returned his kiss. And thus they plighted troth. You can't get around a definite statement like that. Boy got girl. No question about it. But in my case Boy doesn't?"

"No."

"You didn't give a low, soft cry, half sigh, half sob, without my noticing it?"

"No."

"Then I think I see where the trouble lies. Percy, according to the author, had 'a flowing beard,' which he appears to have acquired—honestly, one hopes—at the early age of twenty-four. We shall have to wait till I have a flowing beard. It would seem to be an essential. I'll start growing one tomorrow."

"I wouldn't. Shall I tell you why I'm not moved?"

"It's about time you made some official pronouncement."

"Well... Have you got to sit on the arm of this chair?"

"Not necessarily. I just wanted to be handy, in case the moment arrived for changing that lily to a rose. However, I will move across the way. Now, then."

Terry hesitated.

"Proceed," said Mike encouragingly.

"It's going to sound rather crazy, I'm afraid."

"Never mind. Start gibbering. Why won't you marry me?"

"Well, if you really want to know, because you're too frightfully good-looking."

"Too- what ?"

"Too dazzlingly handsome. I told you it was going to sound crazy."

There was a long silence. Mike seemed stunned.

"Crazy?" he said at length. "It's cuckoo. Girls have been slapped into padded cells for less. You wouldn't call me handsome?"

"You're like something out of a super-film. Haven't you noticed it yourself?"

"Never. Just a good, serviceable face, I should have said."

"The face that launched a thousand ships. Go and look in the glass."

Mike did so. He closed one eye, peered intently and shook his head.

"I don't get it. It's a nice face. A kind face. A face that makes you feel how thoroughly trustworthy and reliable I am. But nothing more."

"It's the profile that stuns. Look at yourself sideways."

"What do you think I am? A contortionist?" Mike moved away from the mirror. His air was still that of a man who is out of his depth. "And that's really why you won't marry me?"

"Yes."

"Well, I was expecting something pretty unbalanced, but nothing on this stupendous scale. You surpass yourself, my young breath-taker. I think I see what must have happened. Leaning out of that schoolroom window during your formative years, you overbalanced and fell on your fat little head."

"It's nice of you to try to find excuses."

"It's the only possible explanation. My child, you're non compos."

"It isn't non composness. It's prudence."

"But what have you got against good-looking men?"

"I mistrust them."

"Including me?"

"Including you."

"Then you're a misguided little chump."

"All right, I'm a misguided little chump."

"My nature is pure gold, clear through."

"That's your story?"

"And I stick to it. You won't change your mind?"

"No."

Mike breathed a little stertorously.

"I suppose it would be a breach of hospitality if I socked my hostess's sister in the eye?"

"The county would purse its lips."

"Darn these hidebound conventions. Well, how much of a gargoyle has a man got to be before you will consider him as a mate? If I looked like Stanwood—"

"Ah!"

"Well, I don't suppose I shall ever touch that supreme height. But if I pursue the hobby of amateur boxing, to which I am greatly addicted, it is possible that some kindly fist may someday bestow on me a cauliflower ear or leave my nose just that half inch out of the straight which makes all the difference. If I come to you later with the old beezer pointing sou'-sou'west, will you reconsider?"

"I'll give the matter thought."

"We'll leave it at that, then. All this won't make any difference to my devotion, of course. I shall continue to love you."

"Thanks."

"Quite all right. A pleasure. But I do think Shorty ought to kick in three guineas and have your head examined by some good specialist. It would be money well spent. Ah, Shorty," said Mike, as the fifth earl entered, looking much refreshed. "Glad to see you once more, my dear old stag at eve. Do you know what your daughter Teresa has just been telling me? She says she won't marry me because I'm too good-looking."

"No!"

"Those were her very words, spoken with a sort of imbecile glitter in her eyes. The whole thing is extraordinarily sad. But why are you still alone? What have you done with Augustus?"

"I can't find him."

"Wasn't he in your room?"

"No. He's gone."

"Perhaps he went to the library," suggested Terry.

Mike frowned.

"I guess he did. I never saw such an undisciplined rabble in all my life. I wish people would stick to their instructions and not start acting on their own initiative."

"Too bad, Sergeant-Major."

"Well, what's the good of me organizing you, if you won't stay organized? Let's go to the library and look."

Terry's theory was proved correct. The missing man was in the library. He was tacking to and fro across the floor with a bottle of creme de menthe in his hand.

He greeted them, as they entered, with a rollicking "Hoy!"

"Rollicking," indeed, was the only adjective to describe Augustus Robb's whole deportment at this critical moment in his career. That, or its French equivalent, was the word which would have leaped to the mind of the stylist Flaubert, always so careful in his search for the mot juste. His face was a vivid scarlet, his eyes gleaming, his smile broad and benevolent. It needed but a glance to see that he was full to the brim of good will to all men. "Come in, cockies," he bellowed, waving the bottle spaciously, and the generous timbre of his voice sent a chill of apprehension through his audience. In the silent night it had seemed to blare out like the Last Trump.

"Sh!" said Mike.

"Sh!" said Lord Shortlands.

"Sh!" said Terry.

A look of courteous surprise came into the vermilion face of the star of the night's performance.

"'Ow do you mean, Sh?" he asked, puzzled.

"Not so loud, Augustus. It's half-past one."

"What about it?"

"You'll go waking people."

"Coo! That's right. Never thought of that," said Augustus Robb. He put the bottle to his lips, and drank a deep draft. "Peppermint, this tastes of," he said. This was the first time he had come in contact with creme de menthe, and he wished to share his discoveries with his little group of friends. "Yus, pep-hic-ermint."

It had become apparent to Mike that in framing his plans he had omitted to guard against all the contingencies which might lead to those plans going awry. He had budgeted for an Augustus Robb primed to the sticking point. That the other, having reached his objective, might decide to push on further he had not foreseen. And it was only too manifest that he had done so. Augustus Robb, if not actually plastered, was beyond a question oiled, and he endeavoured to check the mischief before it could spread.

"Better give me that bottle, Augustus."

"Why?"

"I think you've had enough."

"Enough?" Augustus Robb seemed amazed. "Why, I've only just started."

"Come on, old friend. Hand it over."

A menacing look came into Augustus Robb's eyes.

"You lay a finger on it, cocky, just as much as a ruddy finger, and I'll bounce it on your head." He drank again. "Yus, peppermint," he said. "Nice taste. Wholesome, too. I always liked peppermints as a nipper. My old uncle Fred used to give me them to stop me reciting 'Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practised to deceive!' Which is what you're doing, chum," said Augustus Robb, regarding Mike reproachfully. "Acting a lie, that's what it amounts to. Ananias and Sapphira."