deviated in many respects from the ideal.
‘Did you notice how he looked when he said “Florence”? Like a dying duck in a thunderstorm.’
But it seems odd to me in my present frame of mind that anyone can refuse a drink.
She was silent for a space. Then she spoke in what was for her a hushed voice. That is to say, while rattling the vases on the mantelpiece, it did not bring plaster down from the ceiling.
Her whole aspect was that of a girl who would have given her year’s dress allowance for the privilege of beating G. D’Arcy Cheesewright over the head with a parasol.
‘And did you notice,’ I inquired in my turn, ‘how he looked when you said “Bertie Wooster”? Like someone finding a dead mouse in his pint of beer. Not a bonhomous bird. Not my type.’
But it would be a kindly act to warn the old son of a bachelor to be more careful in future how he allows his tongue to run away with him. There are limits to one’s forbearance.’
weighed the idea of saying something to the effect that girls would be girls and must be expected to have their simple enthusiasms, but decided better not.
At the thought of what horrors might ensue after the clergyman had done his stuff and she had a legal right to bring my grey hairs in sorrow to the grave, the imagination boggled.
Being a pretty broad—minded chap and realizing that it takes all sorts to make a world, I had always till now regarded this beefiness of his with kindly toleration.
