"My cousin Angela's not a bad sort, Tuppy," I said, in a grave,
elder-brotherly kind of way. "Not altogether a bad egg, Angela, if you
look at her squarely. I had always been hoping that she and you.... And
I know my aunt Dahlia felt the same."
Tuppy's bitter sneer cracked the topsoil.
"Angela!" he woofed. "Don't talk to me about Angela. Angela's a rag and
a bone and a hank of hair and an A 1 scourge, if you want to know. She
gave me the push. Yes, she did. Simply because I had the manly courage
to speak out candidly on the subject of that ghastly lid she was chump
enough to buy. It made her look like a Peke, and I told her it made her
look like a Peke. And instead of admiring me for my fearless honesty
she bunged me out on my ear. Faugh!"
"She did?" I said.
"She jolly well did," said young Tuppy. "At four-sixteen P. M.
on Tuesday the seventeenth."
"By the way, old man," I said. "I've found that telegram."
"What telegram?"
"The one I told you about."
"Oh, that one?"
"Yes, that's the one."
"Well, let's have a look at the beastly thing."
I handed it over, watching him narrowly. And suddenly, as he read, I
saw him wabble. Stirred to the core. Obviously.
"Anything important?" I said.
"Bertie," said young Tuppy, in a voice that quivered with strong
emotion, "my recent remarks _re_ your cousin Angela. Wash them out.
Cancel them. Look on them as not spoken. I tell you, Bertie, Angela's
all right. An angel in human shape, and that's official. Bertie, I've
got to get up to London. She's ill."
"Ill?"
"High fever and delirium. This wire's from your aunt. She wants me to
come up to London at once. Can I borrow your car?"
"Of course."
"Thanks," said Tuppy, and dashed out. He had been gone only about a
second when Jeeves came in with the restorative.
"Mr. Glossop's gone, Jeeves."
"Indeed, sir?"
"To London."
"Yes, sir?"
"In my car. To see my cousin Angela. The sun is once more shining,
Jeeves."
"Extremely gratifying, sir."