“Is that my tea, Jeeves?”
“No, sir. It is Mrs. Travers.”
And a moment later there was a sound like a mighty rushing wind, and
the relative had crossed the threshold at fifty m.p.h. under her own
steam.
-4-
It has been well said of Bertram Wooster that, while no one views his
flesh and blood with a keener and more remorselessly critical eye,
he is nevertheless a man who delights in giving credit where credit
is due. And if you have followed these memoirs of mine with the
proper care, you will be aware that I have frequently had occasion to
emphasise the fact that Aunt Dahlia is all right.
She is the one, if you remember, who married old Tom Travers _en
secondes noces_, as I believe the expression is, the year Bluebottle
won the Cambridgeshire, and once induced me to write an article on What
the Well-Dressed Man is Wearing for that paper she runs--_Milady’s
Boudoir_. She is a large, genial soul, with whom it is a pleasure
to hob-nob. In her spiritual make-up there is none of that subtle
gosh-awfulness which renders such an exhibit as, say, my Aunt Agatha
the curse of the Home Counties and a menace to one and all. I have
the highest esteem for Aunt Dahlia, and have never wavered in my
cordial appreciation of her humanity, sporting qualities and general
good-eggishness.
This being so, you may conceive of my astonishment at finding her at
my bedside at such an hour. I mean to say, I’ve stayed at her place
many a time and oft, and she knows my habits. She is well aware that
until I have had my cup of tea in the morning, I do not receive. This
crashing in at a moment when she knew that solitude and repose were of
the essence was scarcely, I could not but feel, the good old form.
Besides, what business had she being in London at all? That was what
I asked myself. When a conscientious housewife has returned to her
home after an absence of seven weeks, one does not expect her to start
racing off again the day after her arrival. One feels that she ought
to be sticking round, ministering to her husband, conferring with the
cook, feeding the cat, combing and brushing the Pomeranian--in a word,
staying put. I was more than a little bleary-eyed, but I endeavoured,
as far as the fact that my eyelids were more or less glued together
would permit, to give her an austere and censorious look.
She didn’t seem to get it.
“Wake up, Bertie, you old ass!” she cried, in a voice that hit me
between the eyebrows and went out at the back of my head.
If Aunt Dahlia has a fault, it is that she is apt to address a
_vis-à-vis_ as if he were somebody half a mile away whom she had
observed riding over hounds. A throwback, no doubt, to the time
when she counted the day lost that was not spent in chivvying some
unfortunate fox over the countryside.
I gave her another of the austere and censorious, and this time it
registered. All the effect it had, however, was to cause her to descend
to personalities.
“Don’t blink at me in that obscene way,” she said. “I wonder, Bertie,”
she proceeded, gazing at me as I should imagine Gussie would have gazed
at some newt that was not up to sample, “if you have the faintest
conception how perfectly loathsome you look? A cross between an orgy
scene in the movies and some low form of pond life. I suppose you were
out on the tiles last night?”
“I attended a social function, yes,” I said coldly. “Pongo Twistleton’s
birthday party. I couldn’t let Pongo down. _Noblesse oblige_.”
“Well, get up and dress.”