Leave It to Psmith, P. G. Wodehouse [novels to read .txt] 📗

heavens!” exclaimed his lordship, aghast. “I had forgotten that you were one. What will you think of me, my dear fellow! But, of course, as I said a moment ago, you are different. I admit that when Constance told me that she had invited you to the house I was not cheered, but, now that I have had the pleasure of meeting you⁠ ⁠…”

The conversation had worked round to the very point to which Psmith had been wishing to direct it. He was keenly desirous of finding out why Mr. McTodd had been invited to Blandings and⁠—a still more vital matter⁠—of ascertaining whether, on his arrival there as Mr. McTodd’s understudy, he was going to meet people who knew the poet by sight. On this latter point, it seemed to him, hung the question of whether he was about to enjoy a delightful visit to a historic country house in the society of Eve Halliday⁠—or leave the train at the next stop and omit to return to it.

“It was extremely kind of Lady Constance,” he hazarded, “to invite a perfect stranger to Blandings.”

“Oh, she’s always doing that sort of thing,” said his lordship. “It didn’t matter to her that she’d never seen you in her life. She had read your books, you know, and liked them: and when she heard that you were coming to England, she wrote to you.”

“I see,” said Psmith, relieved.

“Of course, it is all right as it has turned out,” said Lord Emsworth handsomely. “As I say, you’re different. And how you came to write that⁠ ⁠… that⁠ ⁠…”

“Bilge?” suggested Psmith.

“The very word I was about to employ, my dear fellow⁠ ⁠… No, no, I don’t mean that⁠ ⁠… I⁠—I⁠ ⁠… Capital stuff, no doubt, capital stuff⁠ ⁠… but⁠ ⁠…”

“I understand.”

“Constance tried to make me read the things, but I couldn’t. I fell asleep over them.”

“I hope you rested well.”

“I⁠—er⁠—the fact is, I suppose they were beyond me. I couldn’t see any sense in the things.”

“If you would care to have another pop at them,” said Psmith agreeably, “I have a complete set in my bag.”

“No, no, my dear fellow, thank you very much, thank you a thousand times. I⁠—er⁠—find that reading in the train tries my eyes.”

“Ah! You would prefer that I read them aloud?”

“No, no.” A look of hunted alarm came into his lordship’s speaking countenance at the suggestion. “As a matter of fact, I generally take a short nap at the beginning of a railway journey. I find it refreshing and⁠—er⁠—in short, refreshing. You will excuse me?”

“If you think you can get to sleep all right without the aid of my poems, certainly.”

“You won’t think me rude?”

“Not at all, not at all. By the way, am I likely to meet any old friends at Blandings?”

“Eh? Oh no. There will be nobody but ourselves. Except my sister and Miss Peavey, of course. You said you had not met Miss Peavey, I think?”

“I have not had that pleasure. I am, of course, looking forward to it with the utmost keenness.”

Lord Emsworth eyed him for a moment, astonished: then concluded the conversation by closing his eyes defensively. Psmith was left to his reflections, which a few minutes later were interrupted by a smart kick on the shin, as Lord Emsworth, a jumpy sleeper, began to throw his long legs about. Psmith moved to the other end of the seat, and, taking his bag down from the rack, extracted a slim volume bound in squashy mauve. After gazing at this in an unfriendly manner for a moment, he opened it at random and began to read. His first move on leaving Lord Emsworth at the florist’s had been to spend a portion of his slender capital on the works of Ralston McTodd in order not to be taken at a disadvantage in the event of questions about them at Blandings: but he speedily realised, as he dipped into the poems, that anything in the nature of a prolonged study of them was likely to spoil his little holiday. They were not light summer reading.

“Across the pale parabola of Joy⁠ ⁠…”

A gurgling snort from the other end of the compartment abruptly detached his mind from its struggle with this mystic line. He perceived that his host had slipped even further down on to his spine and was now lying with open mouth in an attitude suggestive of dislocation. And as he looked, there was a whistling sound, and another snore proceeded from the back of his lordship’s throat.

Psmith rose and took his book of poems out into the corridor with the purpose of roaming along the train until he should find an empty compartment in which to read in peace.

With the two adjoining compartments he had no luck. One was occupied by an elderly man with a retriever, while the presence of a baby in the other ruled it out of consideration. The third, however, looked more promising. It was not actually empty, but there was only one occupant, and he was asleep. He was lying back in the far corner with a large silk handkerchief draped over his face and his feet propped up on the seat opposite. His society did not seem likely to act as a bar to the study of Mr. McTodd’s masterpieces. Psmith sat down and resumed his reading.

“Across the pale parabola of Joy⁠ ⁠…”

Psmith knitted his brow. It was just the sort of line which was likely to have puzzled his patroness, Lady Constance, and he anticipated that she would come to him directly he arrived and ask for an explanation. It would obviously be a poor start for his visit to confess that he had no theory as to its meaning himself. He tried it again.

“Across the pale parabola of Joy⁠ ⁠…”

A sound like two or three pigs feeding rather noisily in the middle of a thunderstorm interrupted his meditations. Psmith laid his book down and gazed in a pained way across the compartment. There came to him a sense of being unfairly put upon, as towards the end of his troubles