Short Fiction, P. G. Wodehouse [books for 20 year olds .txt] 📗

that he had been translated to Paradise.

A Paradise, moreover, which was not without its Peri. For at this moment there approached Mr. Potter across the lawn, walking springily as if she were constructed of whalebone and indiarubber, a girl. She was a boyish-looking girl, slim and graceful, and the red hair on her bare head glowed pleasingly in the sun.

“Hullo, Mr. Potter!” she said.

The publisher beamed upon her. This was Roberta Wickham, his hostess’s daughter, who had returned to her ancestral home two days ago from a visit to friends in the North. A friendly young thing, she had appealed to Mr. Potter from the first.

“Well, well, well!” said Mr. Potter.

“Don’t get up. What are you reading?” Bobbie Wickham picked up the manuscript. “Ethics of Suicide,” she read. “Cheery!”

Mr. Potter laughed indulgently.

“No doubt it seems an odd thing to be reading on such a day and in such surroundings. But a publisher is never free. This was sent over for my decision from my New York office. They won’t leave me alone, you see, even when I am on vacation.”

Bobbie Wickham’s hazel eyes clouded pensively.

“There’s a lot to be said for suicide,” she murmured. “If I had to see much of Clifford Gandle, I’d commit suicide myself.”

Mr. Potter started. He had always liked this child, but he had never dreamed that she was such a completely kindred soul.

“Don’t you like Mr. Gandle?”

“No.”

“Nor do I.”

“Nor does anyone,” said Bobbie, “except mother.” Her eyes clouded again. “Mother thinks he’s wonderful.”

“She does?”

“Yes.”

“Well, well!” said Mr. Potter.

Bobbie brooded.

“He’s a member of Parliament, you know.”

“Yes.”

“And they say he may be in the Cabinet any day.”

“So he gave me to understand.”

“And all that sort of thing is very bad for a man, don’t you think? I mean, it seems to make him so starchy.”

“The very word.”

“And pompous.”

“The exact adjective I would have selected,” agreed Mr. Potter. “In our frequent conversations, before you arrived, he addressed me as if I were a half-witted deputation of his constituents.”

“Did you see much of him before I came?”

“A great deal, though I did my best to avoid him.”

“He’s a difficult man to avoid.”

“Yes.” Mr. Potter chuckled sheepishly. “Shall I tell you something that happened a day or two ago? You must not let it go any farther, of course. I was coming out of the smoking-room one morning and I saw him approaching me along the passage. So⁠—so I jumped back and⁠—ha, ha!⁠—hid in a small cupboard.”

“Jolly sensible.”

“Yes. But unfortunately he opened the cupboard door and discovered me. It was exceedingly embarrassing.”

“What did you say?”

“There was nothing much I could say. I’m afraid he must have thought me out of my senses.”

“Well, I⁠—All right, mother. Coming.”

The rich contralto of a female novelist calling to its young had broken the stillness of the summer afternoon. Mr. Potter looked up with a start. Lady Wickham was standing on the lawn. It seemed to Mr. Potter that, as his little friend moved towards her, something of the springiness had gone out of her walk. It was as if she moved reluctantly.

“Where have you been, Roberta?” asked Lady Wickham, as her daughter came within earshot of the normal tone of voice. “I have been looking everywhere for you.”

“Anything special, mother?”

“Mr. Gandle wants to go to Hertford. He has to get some books. I think you had better drive him in your car.”

“Oh, mother!”

Mr. Potter, watching from his chair, observed a peculiar expression flit into Lady Wickham’s face. Had he been her English publisher, instead of merely her prospective American publisher, he would have been familiar with that look. It meant that Lady Wickham was preparing to exercise her celebrated willpower.

“Roberta,” she said, with dangerous quiet, “I particularly wish you to drive Mr. Gandle to Hertford.”

“But I had promised to go over and play tennis at the Crufts’.”

“Mr. Gandle is a much better companion for you than a young waster like Algy Crufts. You must run over and tell him that you cannot play today.”

A few minutes later a natty two-seater drew up at the front door of the Crufts’ residence down the road; and Bobbie Wickham, seated at the wheel, gave tongue.

“Algy!”

The flannel-clad form of Mr. Algernon Crufts appeared at a window.

“Hullo! Down in a jiffy.”

There was an interval. Then Mr. Crufts joined her on the drive.

“Hullo! I say, you haven’t brought your racket, you poor chump,” he said.

“Tennis is off,” announced Bobbie, briefly. “I’ve got to drive Clifford Gandle in to Hertford.” She paused. “I say, Algy, shall I tell you something?”

“What?”

“Between ourselves.”

“Absolutely.”

“Mother wants me to marry Clifford Gandle.”

Algy Crufts uttered a strangled exclamation. Such was his emotion that he nearly swallowed the first eight inches of his cigarette-holder.

“Marry Clifford Gandle!”

“Yes. She’s all for it. She says he would have a steadying influence on me.”

“Ghastly! Take my advice and give the project the most absolute go-by. I was up at Oxford with the man. A blighter, if ever there was one. He was President of the Union and all sorts of frightful things.”

“It’s all very awkward. I don’t know what to do.”

“Kick him in the eye and tell him to go to blazes. That’s the procedure.”

“But it’s so hard not to do anything mother wants you to do. You know mother.”

“I do,” said Mr. Crufts, who did.

“Oh, well,” said Bobbie, “you never know. There’s always the chance that she may take a sudden dislike to him for some reason or other. She does take sudden dislikes to people.”

“She does,” said Mr. Crufts. Lady Wickham had disliked him at first sight.

“Well, let’s hope she will suddenly dislike Clifford Gandle. But I don’t mind telling you, Algy, that at the moment things are looking pretty black.”

“Keep smiling,” urged Mr. Crufts.

“What’s the good of smiling, you fathead?” said Bobbie, morosely.

Night had fallen on Skeldings Hall. Lady Wickham was in her study, thinking those great thoughts which would subsequently be copyrighted in all languages, including the Scandinavian. Bobbie was strolling somewhere in the grounds, having eluded Mr. Gandle after dinner. And Mr. Gandle, baffled but not defeated, had donned a light overcoat and gone out to try to find Bobbie.

As for Mr. Potter, he was luxuriating in restful solitude in