The Intrusion of Jimmy by P. G. Wodehouse (if you liked this book TXT) 📖

the distinguished company he was to entertain that night had changed him temporarily, as with some wave of a fairy wand, into a thing of joviality and benevolence. One could almost hear the milk of human kindness gurgling and splashing within him. The irony of fate! Tonight, such was his mood, a dutiful nephew could have come and felt in his pockets and helped himself—if circumstances had been different. Oh, woman, woman, how you bar us from paradise!

His lordship gurgled a wordless reply, thrusting the fateful letter hastily into his pocket. He would break the news anon. Soon—not yet—later on—in fact, anon!

"Up in your part, my boy?" continued Sir Thomas. "You mustn't spoil the play by forgetting your lines. That wouldn't do!"

His eye was caught by the envelope that Spennie had dropped. A momentary lapse from the jovial and benevolent was the result. His fussy little soul abhorred small untidinesses.

"Dear me," he said, stooping, "I wish people would not drop paper about the house. I cannot endure a litter." He spoke as if somebody had been playing hare-and-hounds, and scattering the scent on the stairs. This sort of thing sometimes made him regret the old days. In Blunt's Stores, Rule Sixty-seven imposed a fine of half-a-crown on employees convicted of paper-dropping.

"I—" began his lordship.

"Why"—Sir Thomas straightened himself—"it's addressed to you."

"I was just going to pick it up. It's—er—there was a note in it."

Sir Thomas gazed at the envelope again. Joviality and benevolence resumed their thrones.

"And in a feminine handwriting," he chuckled. He eyed the limp peer almost roguishly. "I see, I see," he said. "Very charming, quite delightful! Girls must have their little romance! I suppose you two young people are exchanging love-letters all day. Delightful, quite delightful! Don't look as if you were ashamed of it, my boy! I like it. I think it's charming."

Undoubtedly, this was the opening. Beyond a question, his lordship should have said at this point:

"Uncle, I cannot tell a lie. I cannot even allow myself to see you laboring under a delusion which a word from me can remove. The contents of this note are not what you suppose. They run as follows—"

What he did say was:

"Uncle, can you let me have twenty pounds?"

Those were his amazing words. They slipped out. He could not stop them.

Sir Thomas was taken aback for an instant, but not seriously. He started, as might a man who, stroking a cat, receives a sudden, but trifling scratch.

"Twenty pounds, eh?" he said, reflectively.

Then, the milk of human kindness swept over displeasure like a tidal wave. This was a night for rich gifts to the deserving.

"Why, certainly, my boy, certainly. Do you want it at once?"

His lordship replied that he did, please; and he had seldom said anything more fervently.

"Well, well. We'll see what we can do. Come with me."

He led the way to his dressing-room. Like nearly all the rooms at the castle, it was large. One wall was completely hidden by the curtain behind which Spike had taken refuge that afternoon.

Sir Thomas went to the dressing-table, and unlocked a small drawer.

"Twenty, you said? Five, ten, fifteen—here you are, my boy."

Lord Dreever muttered his thanks. Sir Thomas accepted the guttural acknowledgment with a friendly pat on the shoulder.

"I like a little touch like that," he said.

His lordship looked startled.

"I wouldn't have touched you," he began, "if it hadn't been—"

"A little touch like that letter-writing," Sir Thomas went on. "It shows a warm heart. She is a warm-hearted girl, Spennie. A charming, warm-hearted girl! You're uncommonly lucky, my boy."

His lordship, crackling the four bank-notes, silently agreed with him.

"But, come, I must be dressing. Dear me, it is very late. We shall have to hurry. By the way, my boy, I shall take the opportunity of making a public announcement of the engagement tonight. It will be a capital occasion for it. I think, perhaps, at the conclusion of the theatricals, a little speech—something quite impromptu and informal, just asking them to wish you happiness, and so on. I like the idea. There is an old-world air about it that appeals to me. Yes."

He turned to the dressing-table, and removed his collar.

"Well, run along, my boy," he said. "You must not be late." His lordship tottered from the room.

He did quite an unprecedented amount of thinking as he hurried into his evening clothes; but the thought occurring most frequently was that, whatever happened, all was well in one way, at any rate. He had the twenty pounds. There would be something colossal in the shape of disturbances when his uncle learned the truth. It would be the biggest thing since the San Francisco earthquake. But what of it? He had the money.

He slipped it into his waistcoat-pocket. He would take it down with him, and pay Hargate directly after dinner.

He left the room. The flutter of a skirt caught his eye as he reached the landing. A girl was coming down the corridor on the other side. He waited at the head of the stairs to let her go down before him. As she came on to the landing, he saw that it was Molly.

For a moment, there was an awkward pause.

"Er—I got your note," said his lordship.

She looked at him, and then burst out laughing.

"You know, you don't mind the least little bit," she said; "not a scrap. Now, do you?"

"Well, you see—"

"Don't make excuses! Do you?"

"Well, it's like this, you see, I—"

He caught her eye. Next moment, they were laughing together.

"No, but look here, you know," said his lordship. "What I mean is, it isn't that I don't—I mean, look here, there's no reason why we shouldn't be the best of pals."

"Why, of course, there isn't."

"No, really, I say? That's ripping. Shake hands on it."

They clasped hands; and it was in this affecting attitude that Sir Thomas Blunt, bustling downstairs, discovered them.

"Aha!" he cried, archly. "Well, well, well! But don't mind me, don't mind me!"

Molly flushed uncomfortably; partly, because she disliked Sir Thomas even when he was not arch, and hated him when he was; partly, because she felt foolish; and, principally, because she was bewildered. She had not looked