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Authors: Sir P G Wodehouse
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there on a
rustic bench. Lord Emsworth's father had been a man much
given to strewing rustic benches hither and thither. He had
also, not that it matters, collected birds' eggs and bound
volumes of the proceedings of the Shropshire Archaeological
Society.
As she sat there, she was thinking of Wilbur Trout. The
news that he was expected on the afternoon train had given her
a nostalgic thrill. He had probably forgotten it, his having been
a life into which feminine entanglements had entered so
largely, but they had once for a short time been engaged to be
married, and though it was she who had broken the engagement,
she had always retained a maternal fondness for him.
Whenever she read of another of his marriages she could not
help feeling that she had been wrong to desert her post and
stop looking after him. Lacking her gentle supervision, he had
lost all restraint, springing from blonde to blonde with an
assiduity which seemed to suggest that he intended to go on
marrying them till the supply gave out.
Wilbur Trout was a young man of great amiability whose
initial mistake in life had been to have a father who enjoyed
making money and counted that day lost which had gone by
without increasing his bank balance. Had he been the son of
someone humble in the lower income tax brackets, he would
have gone through the years as a blameless and contented
filing clerk or something on that order, his only form of
dissipation an occasional visit to Palisades Park or Coney
Island. Inheriting some fifty million dollars in blue chip
securities unsettled him, and he had become New York's most
prominent playboy, fawned on by head waiters, a fount of
material to gossip columnists and a great giver of parties whose
guests included both the rich and the poor. It was at one of
these that Vanessa had met him, and she now sat in the shady
nook thinking of old times.
In favour of this shady nook there was much to be said. It
was cool. It was pleasantly scented. The streamlet that trickled
through it on its way to the lake gave out a musical tinkle. And
above all Alaric, Duke of Dunstable, was not there. But against
these advantages had to be set the fact that it was a sort of
country club for all the winged insects in Shropshire.
Wearying of their society after a while, Vanessa rose and made
her way back to the house, and as she approached it Lord
Emsworth came down the front steps.
She greeted him cordially.
'Playing hooky, Lord Emsworth?'
'I beg your pardon?'
'Or has the Empress given you the afternoon off? Aren't you
usually on duty at this time of day?'
Lord Emsworth, who had been looking gloomy, brightened
a little. He was fond of Vanessa. He found her sympathetic,
and a sympathetic ear into which to pour his troubles was just
what he had been wanting. He explained the reason for his
despondency.
'Connie told me to meet this man Trout at the station. He
is arriving on a train that gets in soon. I forget when, but
Voules will know. And I ought to be with the Empress every
minute. She needs me at her side.'
'Why didn't you tell Lady Constance that you had a
previous engagement?'
The blankness behind Lord Emsworth's pince-nez showed
that this revolutionary idea had not occurred to him. When
Connie told you to do things, you did not say that you had a
previous engagement. Galahad, of course, would be capable of
such an act of reckless courage, but Galahad, in addition to
being a man of steel and iron, veteran of a hundred battles with
bookmakers, process servers and racecourse touts, wore an
eyeglass and had only to twiddle it to daunt the stoutest sister.
It was not a feat to be expected of a man in pince-nez. With a
shiver at the mere thought of such a thing, he said:
'Oh, I couldn't do that.'
'Why not?'
'She would be furious.'
Wheels grated on gravel, and the car came round the corner,
chauffeur Voules at the helm.
'Oh dear,' sighed Lord Emsworth, seeing it.
'Look,' said Vanessa. 'Why don't I go and meet Trout?'
The start Lord
rustic bench. Lord Emsworth's father had been a man much
given to strewing rustic benches hither and thither. He had
also, not that it matters, collected birds' eggs and bound
volumes of the proceedings of the Shropshire Archaeological
Society.
As she sat there, she was thinking of Wilbur Trout. The
news that he was expected on the afternoon train had given her
a nostalgic thrill. He had probably forgotten it, his having been
a life into which feminine entanglements had entered so
largely, but they had once for a short time been engaged to be
married, and though it was she who had broken the engagement,
she had always retained a maternal fondness for him.
Whenever she read of another of his marriages she could not
help feeling that she had been wrong to desert her post and
stop looking after him. Lacking her gentle supervision, he had
lost all restraint, springing from blonde to blonde with an
assiduity which seemed to suggest that he intended to go on
marrying them till the supply gave out.
Wilbur Trout was a young man of great amiability whose
initial mistake in life had been to have a father who enjoyed
making money and counted that day lost which had gone by
without increasing his bank balance. Had he been the son of
someone humble in the lower income tax brackets, he would
have gone through the years as a blameless and contented
filing clerk or something on that order, his only form of
dissipation an occasional visit to Palisades Park or Coney
Island. Inheriting some fifty million dollars in blue chip
securities unsettled him, and he had become New York's most
prominent playboy, fawned on by head waiters, a fount of
material to gossip columnists and a great giver of parties whose
guests included both the rich and the poor. It was at one of
these that Vanessa had met him, and she now sat in the shady
nook thinking of old times.
In favour of this shady nook there was much to be said. It
was cool. It was pleasantly scented. The streamlet that trickled
through it on its way to the lake gave out a musical tinkle. And
above all Alaric, Duke of Dunstable, was not there. But against
these advantages had to be set the fact that it was a sort of
country club for all the winged insects in Shropshire.
Wearying of their society after a while, Vanessa rose and made
her way back to the house, and as she approached it Lord
Emsworth came down the front steps.
She greeted him cordially.
'Playing hooky, Lord Emsworth?'
'I beg your pardon?'
'Or has the Empress given you the afternoon off? Aren't you
usually on duty at this time of day?'
Lord Emsworth, who had been looking gloomy, brightened
a little. He was fond of Vanessa. He found her sympathetic,
and a sympathetic ear into which to pour his troubles was just
what he had been wanting. He explained the reason for his
despondency.
'Connie told me to meet this man Trout at the station. He
is arriving on a train that gets in soon. I forget when, but
Voules will know. And I ought to be with the Empress every
minute. She needs me at her side.'
'Why didn't you tell Lady Constance that you had a
previous engagement?'
The blankness behind Lord Emsworth's pince-nez showed
that this revolutionary idea had not occurred to him. When
Connie told you to do things, you did not say that you had a
previous engagement. Galahad, of course, would be capable of
such an act of reckless courage, but Galahad, in addition to
being a man of steel and iron, veteran of a hundred battles with
bookmakers, process servers and racecourse touts, wore an
eyeglass and had only to twiddle it to daunt the stoutest sister.
It was not a feat to be expected of a man in pince-nez. With a
shiver at the mere thought of such a thing, he said:
'Oh, I couldn't do that.'
'Why not?'
'She would be furious.'
Wheels grated on gravel, and the car came round the corner,
chauffeur Voules at the helm.
'Oh dear,' sighed Lord Emsworth, seeing it.
'Look,' said Vanessa. 'Why don't I go and meet Trout?'
The start Lord
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