At the Drones I ran into Pongo Twistleton, and he talked so much about
this forthcoming merry-making of his, of which good reports had already
reached me through my correspondents, that it was nearing eleven when I
got home again.
And scarcely had I opened the door when I heard voices in the
sitting-room, and scarcely had I entered the sitting-room when I found
that these proceeded from Jeeves and what appeared at first sight to be
the Devil.
A closer scrutiny informed me that it was Gussie Fink-Nottle, dressed
as Mephistopheles.
-2-
“What-ho, Gussie,” I said.
You couldn’t have told it from my manner, but I was feeling more than a
bit nonplussed. The spectacle before me was enough to nonplus anyone.
I mean to say, this Fink-Nottle, as I remembered him, was the sort of
shy, shrinking goop who might have been expected to shake like an aspen
if invited to so much as a social Saturday afternoon at the vicarage.
And yet here he was, if one could credit one’s senses, about to take
part in a fancy-dress ball, a form of entertainment notoriously a
testing experience for the toughest.
And he was attending that fancy-dress ball, mark you--not, like every
other well-bred Englishman, as a Pierrot, but as Mephistopheles--this
involving, as I need scarcely stress, not only scarlet tights but a
pretty frightful false beard.
Rummy, you’ll admit. However, one masks one’s feelings. I betrayed no
vulgar astonishment, but, as I say, what-hoed with civil nonchalance.
He grinned through the fungus--rather sheepishly, I thought.
“Oh, hullo, Bertie.”
“Long time since I saw you. Have a spot?”
“No, thanks. I must be off in a minute. I just came round to ask Jeeves
how he thought I looked. How do you think I look, Bertie?”
Well, the answer to that, of course, was “perfectly foul”. But we
Woosters are men of tact and have a nice sense of the obligations of a
host. We do not tell old friends beneath our roof-tree that they are an
offence to the eyesight. I evaded the question.
“I hear you’re in London,” I said carelessly.
“Oh, yes.”
“Must be years since you came up.”
“Oh, yes.”
“And now you’re off for an evening’s pleasure.”
He shuddered a bit. He had, I noticed, a hunted air.
“Pleasure!”
“Aren’t you looking forward to this rout or revel?”
“Oh, I suppose it’ll be all right,” he said, in a toneless voice.
“Anyway, I ought to be off, I suppose. The thing starts round about
eleven. I told my cab to wait.... Will you see if it’s there, Jeeves?”
“Very good, sir.”
There was something of a pause after the door had closed. A certain
constraint. I mixed myself a beaker, while Gussie, a glutton for
punishment, stared at himself in the mirror. Finally I decided that it
would be best to let him know that I was abreast of his affairs. It
might be that it would ease his mind to confide in a sympathetic man
of experience. I have generally found, with those under the influence,
that what they want more than anything is the listening ear.
“Well, Gussie, old leper,” I said, “I’ve been hearing all about you.”
“Eh?”
“This little trouble of yours. Jeeves has told me everything.”
He didn’t seem any too braced. It’s always difficult to be sure, of
course, when a chap has dug himself in behind a Mephistopheles beard,
but I fancy he flushed a trifle.
“I wish Jeeves wouldn’t go gassing all over the place. It was supposed
to be confidential.”