Jeeves Stories, P. G. Wodehouse [best ereader for epub .TXT] 📗

to where Gussie, the human film, was earning his thirty-five per. As luck would have it, we hadn’t been in the place ten minutes when out he came.

“Exhibit B,” I said. “Gussie.”

I don’t quite know what I had expected her to do, but I certainly didn’t expect her to sit there without a word. She did not move a muscle, but just stared at Gussie as he drooled on about the moon. I was sorry for the woman, for it must have been a shock to her to see her only son in a mauve frockcoat and a brown top hat, but I thought it best to let her get a stranglehold on the intricacies of the situation as quickly as possible. If I had tried to explain the affair without the aid of illustrations I should have talked all day and left her muddled up as to who was going to marry whom, and why.

I was astonished at the improvement in dear old Gussie. He had got back his voice and was putting the stuff over well. It reminded me of the night at Oxford when, then but a lad of eighteen, he sang “Let’s All Go Down the Strand” after a bump supper, standing the while up to his knees in the college fountain. He was putting just the same zip into the thing now.

When he had gone off Aunt Julia sat perfectly still for a long time, and then she turned to me. Her eyes shone queerly.

“What does this mean, Bertie?”

She spoke quite quietly, but her voice shook a bit.

“Gussie went into the business,” I said, “because the girl’s father wouldn’t let him marry her unless he did. If you feel up to it perhaps you wouldn’t mind tottering round to One Hundred and Thirty-third Street and having a chat with him. He’s an old boy with eyebrows, and he’s Exhibit C on my list. When I’ve put you in touch with him I rather fancy my share of the business is concluded, and it’s up to you.”

The Danbys lived in one of those big apartments uptown which look as if they cost the earth and really cost about half as much as a hall-room down in the forties. We were shown into the sitting room, and presently old Danby came in.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Danby,” I began.

I had got as far as that when there was a kind of gasping cry at my elbow.

“Joe!” cried Aunt Julia, and staggered against the sofa.

For a moment old Danby stared at her, and then his mouth fell open and his eyebrows shot up like rockets.

“Julie!”

And then they had got hold of each other’s hands and were shaking them till I wondered their arms didn’t come unscrewed.

I’m not equal to this sort of thing at such short notice. The change in Aunt Julia made me feel quite dizzy. She had shed her grande dame manner completely, and was blushing and smiling. I don’t like to say such things of any aunt of mine, or I would go further and put it on record that she was giggling. And old Danby, who usually looked like a cross between a Roman emperor and Napoleon Bonaparte in a bad temper, was behaving like a small boy.

“Joe!”

“Julie!”

“Dear old Joe! Fancy meeting you again!”

“Wherever have you come from, Julie?”

Well, I didn’t know what it was all about, but I felt a bit out of it. I butted in:

“Aunt Julia wants to have a talk with you, Mr. Danby.”

“I knew you in a second, Joe!”

“It’s twenty-five years since I saw you, kid, and you don’t look a day older.”

“Oh, Joe! I’m an old woman!”

“What are you doing over here? I suppose”⁠—old Danby’s cheerfulness waned a trifle⁠—“I suppose your husband is with you?”

“My husband died a long, long while ago, Joe.”

Old Danby shook his head.

“You never ought to have married out of the profession, Julie. I’m not saying a word against the late⁠—I can’t remember his name; never could⁠—but you shouldn’t have done it, an artist like you. Shall I ever forget the way you used to knock them with ‘Rumpty-tiddley-umpty-ay’?”

“Ah! how wonderful you were in that act, Joe.” Aunt Julia sighed. “Do you remember the back-fall you used to do down the steps? I always have said that you did the best back-fall in the profession.”

“I couldn’t do it now!”

“Do you remember how we put it across at the Canterbury, Joe? Think of it! The Canterbury’s a moving-picture house now, and the old Mogul runs French revues.”

“I’m glad I’m not there to see them.”

“Joe, tell me, why did you leave England?”

“Well, I⁠—I wanted a change. No I’ll tell you the truth, kid. I wanted you, Julie. You went off and married that⁠—whatever that stage-door johnny’s name was⁠—and it broke me all up.”

Aunt Julia was staring at him. She is what they call a well-preserved woman. It’s easy to see that, twenty-five years ago, she must have been something quite extraordinary to look at. Even now she’s almost beautiful. She has very large brown eyes, a mass of soft grey hair, and the complexion of a girl of seventeen.

“Joe, you aren’t going to tell me you were fond of me yourself!”

“Of course I was fond of you. Why did I let you have all the fat in ‘Fun in a Teashop’? Why did I hang about upstage while you sang ‘Rumpty-tiddley-umpty-ay’? Do you remember my giving you a bag of buns when we were on the road at Bristol?”

“Yes, but⁠—”

“Do you remember my giving you the ham sandwiches at Portsmouth?”

“Joe!”

“Do you remember my giving you a seed-cake at Birmingham? What did you think all that meant, if not that I loved you? Why, I was working up by degrees to telling you straight out when you suddenly went off and married that cane-sucking dude. That’s why I wouldn’t let my daughter marry this young chap, Wilson, unless he went into the profession. She’s an artist⁠—”

“She certainly is, Joe.”

“You’ve seen her? Where?”

“At the Auditorium just now. But, Joe, you mustn’t stand