You know, Bayliss,” said Jimmy thoughtfully, rolling over on the couch, “life is peculiar, not to say odd. You never know what is waiting for you round the corner. You start the day with the fairest prospects, and before nightfall everything is as rocky and ding-basted as stig tossed full of doodlegammon.
What ho, Stinker.’ ‘Hallo, Bertie.’ ‘Long time since we met.’ ‘It is a bit, isn’t it?’ ‘I hear you’re a curate now.’ ‘Yes, that’s right.’ ‘How are the souls?
She was a shrewd woman, and knew that the art of life is to know when to stop talking. What words have accomplished, too many words can undo. “Good-bye.
It may work, Jeeves. It is, at least, worth trying. I shall now leave you, to prepare myself for the ordeal before me with silent meditation.’ ‘Your tea will be here in a moment, sir.’ ‘No, Jeeves. This is no time for tea. I must concentrate.
Two tramps of supernatural exuberance called at the cottage shortly after breakfast to ask George, whom they had never even consulted about their marriages, to help support their wives and children.
Bayliss resumed reading. He was one of those readers who, whether their subject be a murder case or funny anecdote, adopt a measured and sepulchral delivery which gives a suggestion of tragedy and horror to whatever they read. At the church he attended, children would turn pale and snuggle up to their mothers when he read.
Lord Emsworth belonged to the people-who-like-to-be-left-alone- to-amuse-themselves-when-they-come-to-a-place school of hosts.
Well, this should certainly teach us, should it not, never to repine, never to despair, never to allow the upper lip to unstiffen, but always to remember that, no matter how dark the skies may be, the sun is shining somewhere and will eventually come smiling through.
He was as completely happy as only a fluffy-minded old man with excellent health and a large income can be.
But the southwest wind of Spring brings also remorse. We catch the vague spirit of unrest in the air and we regret our misspent youth.
Do you realize a fraction of the awful things you have let me in for? How on earth am I to remember whether I go in before the chef or after the footman? I shan’t have a peaceful minute while I’m in this place.
The effect now was much the same as if I had been listening in to a dramatic sketch on the wireless. I got the voices, but I missed the play of expression. And I’d have given a lot to be able to see it. Not Jeeves’s, of course, because Jeeves never has any.
Of course I think so. Have you forgotten what I told you the other day?’ ‘Yes,’ said Lord Emsworth. He always forgot what people told him the other day.
The wretched man seemed fully conscious of his position.
This man’s brother I was telling you about,” said Spennie, “says there’s only one rhyme in the English language to ‘burglar’, and that’s ‘gurgler’. Unless you count ‘pergola’, he says – –.
After all, what could be pleasanter than a little literature in the small hours?
Love is a fever which, so to speak, drives off without wasting time on the address.
I can’t stand Paris. I hate the place. Full of people talking French.
I could make a poet out of far less promising material. I could make a poet out of two sticks and a piece of orange peel.
Jeeves’ eyes had taken on the look of cautious reserve which you see in those of parrots, when offered half a banana by a stranger of whose bona fides they are not convinced.