actually swallowed some rigid object such as a poker,
but she gave the impression of having done so, and Jeff was conscious of
surprise that she should have succeeded in getting married to one so
notoriously popular with the other sex as J. B. Underwood. [34] Perhaps,
he felt, he had proposed to her because somebody betted he wouldn’t.
Beach,
having announced ‘Mr. Smith’ in a voice from which he did his best to keep the
gentle pity he could not but feel for the nice young man he was leaving to face
her ladyship in what was plainly one of her moods, withdrew, and Florence
opened the conversation.
Some
women who at first sight intimidate the beholder set him at his ease with charm
of manner. Florence was not one of these. Her ‘How do you do’, delivered from between
clenched teeth, was in keeping with her appearance, and Jeff’s morale, already
in the low brackets, slipped still lower. No trace remained of the airy confidence
with which he had assured Gally that the Smiths knew what fear was only by
hearsay. A worm confronted by a Plymouth Rock would have been more nonchalant.
Florence
came to the point without preamble.
‘I
understand that you have come to paint a portrait of Lord Emsworth’s pig,’ she
said, speaking as if the words soiled her lips.
‘Yes,’
said Jeff, only just checking himself from adding ‘ma’am’. It was difficult not
to believe himself in the presence of Royalty.
‘It is
a perfectly preposterous idea.’
There
seemed nothing to say in reply to this, so Jeff said nothing. Nobody knew
better than himself that he was getting the loser’s end of these exchanges, but
there seemed nothing he could do about it. He envied Gaily, who, he knew, would
have taken this haughty woman in his stride.
‘Pigs!’
said Florence, making it clear that these animals did not stand high in her
estimation, and while Jeff was continuing to say nothing the door opened and
Lord Emsworth pottered in with his customary air of being a somnambulist
looking for a dropped collar stud.
‘Florence,’
he bleated, ‘I’ve just had a telegram from Frederick. He says he’s in England
again and is coming here.’
There
was no pleasure in his voice. Visits from his younger son seldom pleased him.
Freddie was a vice-president of Donaldson’s Dog Joy of Long Island City, N.Y.
and like all vice-presidents was inclined to talk shop. It is trying for a father
who wants to talk about nothing but pigs to have a son in the home who wants to
talk about nothing but dog-biscuits.
‘Oh?’
said Florence.
‘I
thought you would like to know.’
‘I
haven’t the slightest interest in Frederick’s movements.’
‘Then
you ought to have.’
‘Why?’
‘You’re
his aunt.’
If
Florence had been less carefully brought up, she would no doubt have said ‘So
what?’ As it was, she chose her words more carefully.
‘I am
not aware that there is a law, human or divine, which says that an aunt must
enjoy the society of a nephew who confines his conversation exclusively to the
subject of dog-biscuits.’
‘Noblesse
oblige,’ said Lord Emsworth, remembering a good
one, and Florence asked him what on earth noblesse had got to do with
it. As Lord Emsworth was unable to find a reply to this, there was a momentary
silence, during which Jeff decided that if there was going to be an argument
about what was and what was not required behaviour for aunts, it was a good
time to leave. He sidled out, and Lord Emsworth, seeing him for the first time,
gazed after him in bewilderment, almost as if, like his pig man, he had been
suddenly confronted by the White Lady of Blandings, who was supposed to make
her rounds of the castle with her head under her arm, it having been chopped
off by her husband in the Middle Ages.
‘Who
was that?’ he asked, and Florence was obliged to soil her lips again.
‘Mr.
Smith,’ she said.
‘Oh,
yes. He’s come to paint the Empress.’
‘So I
understand.’
‘He’s a
friend of
but she gave the impression of having done so, and Jeff was conscious of
surprise that she should have succeeded in getting married to one so
notoriously popular with the other sex as J. B. Underwood. [34] Perhaps,
he felt, he had proposed to her because somebody betted he wouldn’t.
Beach,
having announced ‘Mr. Smith’ in a voice from which he did his best to keep the
gentle pity he could not but feel for the nice young man he was leaving to face
her ladyship in what was plainly one of her moods, withdrew, and Florence
opened the conversation.
Some
women who at first sight intimidate the beholder set him at his ease with charm
of manner. Florence was not one of these. Her ‘How do you do’, delivered from between
clenched teeth, was in keeping with her appearance, and Jeff’s morale, already
in the low brackets, slipped still lower. No trace remained of the airy confidence
with which he had assured Gally that the Smiths knew what fear was only by
hearsay. A worm confronted by a Plymouth Rock would have been more nonchalant.
Florence
came to the point without preamble.
‘I
understand that you have come to paint a portrait of Lord Emsworth’s pig,’ she
said, speaking as if the words soiled her lips.
‘Yes,’
said Jeff, only just checking himself from adding ‘ma’am’. It was difficult not
to believe himself in the presence of Royalty.
‘It is
a perfectly preposterous idea.’
There
seemed nothing to say in reply to this, so Jeff said nothing. Nobody knew
better than himself that he was getting the loser’s end of these exchanges, but
there seemed nothing he could do about it. He envied Gaily, who, he knew, would
have taken this haughty woman in his stride.
‘Pigs!’
said Florence, making it clear that these animals did not stand high in her
estimation, and while Jeff was continuing to say nothing the door opened and
Lord Emsworth pottered in with his customary air of being a somnambulist
looking for a dropped collar stud.
‘Florence,’
he bleated, ‘I’ve just had a telegram from Frederick. He says he’s in England
again and is coming here.’
There
was no pleasure in his voice. Visits from his younger son seldom pleased him.
Freddie was a vice-president of Donaldson’s Dog Joy of Long Island City, N.Y.
and like all vice-presidents was inclined to talk shop. It is trying for a father
who wants to talk about nothing but pigs to have a son in the home who wants to
talk about nothing but dog-biscuits.
‘Oh?’
said Florence.
‘I
thought you would like to know.’
‘I
haven’t the slightest interest in Frederick’s movements.’
‘Then
you ought to have.’
‘Why?’
‘You’re
his aunt.’
If
Florence had been less carefully brought up, she would no doubt have said ‘So
what?’ As it was, she chose her words more carefully.
‘I am
not aware that there is a law, human or divine, which says that an aunt must
enjoy the society of a nephew who confines his conversation exclusively to the
subject of dog-biscuits.’
‘Noblesse
oblige,’ said Lord Emsworth, remembering a good
one, and Florence asked him what on earth noblesse had got to do with
it. As Lord Emsworth was unable to find a reply to this, there was a momentary
silence, during which Jeff decided that if there was going to be an argument
about what was and what was not required behaviour for aunts, it was a good
time to leave. He sidled out, and Lord Emsworth, seeing him for the first time,
gazed after him in bewilderment, almost as if, like his pig man, he had been
suddenly confronted by the White Lady of Blandings, who was supposed to make
her rounds of the castle with her head under her arm, it having been chopped
off by her husband in the Middle Ages.
‘Who
was that?’ he asked, and Florence was obliged to soil her lips again.
‘Mr.
Smith,’ she said.
‘Oh,
yes. He’s come to paint the Empress.’
‘So I
understand.’
‘He’s a
friend of
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