The Man with Two Left Feet by P. G. Wodehouse Page B

story. In fact, it was the tremendous sympathy she showed that encouraged me to propose. If it hadn’t been for that, I shouldn’t have had the nerve. I’m not fit to black her shoes.’
    Odd, the poor opinion a man always has—when he is in love—of his personal attractions. There were times when I thought of Grace Bates, Heloise Miller, and Clarice Wembley, when I felt like one of the beasts that perish. But then, I’m nothing to write home about, whereas the smallest gleam of intelligence should have told Wilton that he was a kind of Ouida guardsman.
    â€˜This evening I managed somehow to do it. She was tremendously nice about it—said she was very fond of me and all that—but it was quite out of the question because of Amy.’
    â€˜I don’t follow this. What did she mean?’
    â€˜It’s perfectly clear, if you bear in mind that Mary is the most sensitive, spiritual, highly strung girl that ever drew breath,’ said Wilton, a little coldly. ‘Her position is this: she feels that, because of Amy, she can never have my love completely; between us there would always be Amy’s memory. It would be the same as if she married a widower.’
    â€˜Well, widowers marry.’
    â€˜They don’t marry girls like Mary.’
    I couldn’t help feeling that this was a bit of luck for the widowers; but I didn’t say so. One has always got to remember that opinions differ about girls. One man’s peach, so to speak, is another man’s poison. I have met men who didn’t like Grace Bates, men who, if Heloise Miller or Clarice Wembley had given them their photographs, would have used them to cut the pages of a novel.
    â€˜Amy stands between us,’ said Wilton.
    I breathed a sympathetic snort. I couldn’t think of anything noticeably suitable to say.
    â€˜Stands between us,’ repeated Wilton. ‘And the damn silly part of the whole thing is that there isn’t any Amy. I invented her.’
    â€˜You—what!’
    â€˜Invented her. Made her up. No, I’m not mad. I had a reason. Let me see, you come from London, don’t you?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Then you haven’t any friends. It’s different with me. I live in a small country town, and everyone’s my friend. I don’t know what it is about me, but for some reason, ever since I can remember, I’ve been looked on as the strong man of my town, the man who’s
all right
. Am I making myself clear?’
    â€˜Not quite.’
    â€˜Well, what I am trying to get at is this. Either because I’m a strong sort of fellow to look at, and have obviously never been sick in my life, or because I can’t help looking pretty cheerful, the whole of Bridley-in-the-Wold seems to take it for granted that I can’t possibly have any troubles of my own, and that I am consequently fair game for anyone who has any sort of worry. I have the sympathetic manner, and they come to me to be cheered up. If a fellow’s in love, he makes a beeline for me, and tells me all about it. If anyone has had a bereavement, I am the rock on which he leans for support. Well, I’m a patient sort of man, and, as far as Bridley-in-the-Wold is concerned, I am willing to play the part. But a strong man does need an occasional holiday, and I made up my mind that I would get it. Directly I got here I saw that the same old game was going to start. Spencer Clay swooped down on me at once. I’m as big a draw with the Spencer Clay type of maudlin idiot as catnip is with a cat. Well, I could stand it at home, but I was hanged if I was going to have my holiday spoiled. So I invented Amy. Now do you see?’
    â€˜Certainly I see. And I perceive something else which you appear to have overlooked. If Amy doesn’t exist—or, rather, never did exist—she cannot stand between you and Miss Campbell. Tell her what you have told me, and all will be well.’
    He