Read Online Mr Mulliner Speaking by P. G. Wodehouse - Free Book Online
Authors: P. G. Wodehouse
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positively respectable, so . . .'
Her voice died away in a strangled rattle. They had entered the Park and were drawing near to the Achilles statue, and coming towards them, his top hat raised in a debonair manner, was a young man of pleasing appearance, correctly clad in morning-coat, grey tie, stiff collar, and an unimpeachable pair of sponge-bag trousers, nicely creased from north to south.
But he was, alas, not one hundred per cent correct. From neck to ankles beyond criticism, below that he went all to pieces. What had caused Lady Chloe to lose the thread of her remarks and Cedric Mulliner to utter a horrified moan was the fact that this young man was wearing bright yellow shoes.
'Claude!' Lady Chloe covered her eyes with a shaking hand. 'Ye Gods!' she cried. 'The foot-joy! The banana specials! The yellow perils! Why? For what reason?'
The young man seemed taken aback.
'Don't you like them?' he said. 'I thought they were rather natty. Just what the rig-out needed, in my opinion, a touch of colour. It seemed to me to help the composition.'
'They're awful. Tell him how awful they are, Mr Mulliner.'
'Tan shoes are not worn with morning-clothes,' said Cedric in a low, grave voice. He was deeply shaken.
'Why not?'
'Never mind why not,' said Lady Chloe. 'They aren't. Look at Mr Mulliner's.'
The young man did so.
'Tame,' he said. 'Colourless. Lacking in spirit and that indefinable something. I don't like them.'
'Well, you've jolly well got to learn to like them,' said Lady Chloe, 'because you're going to change with Mr Mulliner this very minute.'
A shrill, bat-like, middle-aged bachelor squeak forced itself from Cedric's lips. He could hardly believe he had heard correctly.
'Come along, both of you,' said Lady Chloe briskly. 'You can do it over there behind those chairs. I'm sure you don't mind, Mr Mulliner, do you?'
Cedric was still shuddering strongly.
'You ask me to put on yellow shoes with morning-clothes?' he whispered, the face beneath his shining silk hat pale and drawn.
'Yes.'
'Here? In the Park? At the height of the Season?'
'Yes. Do hurry.'
'But . . .'
'Mr Mulliner! Surely? To oblige me?'
She was gazing at him with pleading eyes, and from the confused welter of Cedric's thoughts there emerged, clear and crystal-like, the recollection of the all-important fact that this girl was the daughter of an Earl and related on her mother's side not only to the Somersetshire Meophams, but to the Brashmarleys of Bucks, the Widringtons of Wilts, and the Hilsbury-Hepworths of Hants. Could he refuse any request, however monstrous, proceeding from one so extremely well-connected?
He stood palsied. All his life he had prided himself on the unassailable orthodoxy of his costume. As a young man he had never gone in for bright ties. His rigidity in the matter of turned-up trousers was a byword. And, though the fashion had been set by an Exalted Personage, he had always stood out against even such a venial lapse as the wearing of a white waistcoat with a dinner-jacket. How little this girl knew the magnitude of the thing she was asking of him. He blinked. His eyes watered and his ears twitched. Hyde Park seemed to whirl about him.
And then, like a voice from afar, something seemed to whisper in his ear that this girl's second cousin, Adelaide, had married Lord Slythe and Sayle and that among the branches of the family were the Sussex Booles and the ffrench-ffarmiloes – not the Kent ffrench-ffarmiloes but the Dorsetshire lot. It just turned the scale.
'So be it!' said Cedric Mulliner.
For a few moments after he found himself alone, my cousin Cedric had all the appearance of a man at a loss for his next move. He stood rooted to the spot, staring spellbound at the saffron horrors which had blossomed on his hitherto blameless feet. Then, pulling himself together with a strong effort, he slunk to Hyde Park Corner, stopped a passing
Her voice died away in a strangled rattle. They had entered the Park and were drawing near to the Achilles statue, and coming towards them, his top hat raised in a debonair manner, was a young man of pleasing appearance, correctly clad in morning-coat, grey tie, stiff collar, and an unimpeachable pair of sponge-bag trousers, nicely creased from north to south.
But he was, alas, not one hundred per cent correct. From neck to ankles beyond criticism, below that he went all to pieces. What had caused Lady Chloe to lose the thread of her remarks and Cedric Mulliner to utter a horrified moan was the fact that this young man was wearing bright yellow shoes.
'Claude!' Lady Chloe covered her eyes with a shaking hand. 'Ye Gods!' she cried. 'The foot-joy! The banana specials! The yellow perils! Why? For what reason?'
The young man seemed taken aback.
'Don't you like them?' he said. 'I thought they were rather natty. Just what the rig-out needed, in my opinion, a touch of colour. It seemed to me to help the composition.'
'They're awful. Tell him how awful they are, Mr Mulliner.'
'Tan shoes are not worn with morning-clothes,' said Cedric in a low, grave voice. He was deeply shaken.
'Why not?'
'Never mind why not,' said Lady Chloe. 'They aren't. Look at Mr Mulliner's.'
The young man did so.
'Tame,' he said. 'Colourless. Lacking in spirit and that indefinable something. I don't like them.'
'Well, you've jolly well got to learn to like them,' said Lady Chloe, 'because you're going to change with Mr Mulliner this very minute.'
A shrill, bat-like, middle-aged bachelor squeak forced itself from Cedric's lips. He could hardly believe he had heard correctly.
'Come along, both of you,' said Lady Chloe briskly. 'You can do it over there behind those chairs. I'm sure you don't mind, Mr Mulliner, do you?'
Cedric was still shuddering strongly.
'You ask me to put on yellow shoes with morning-clothes?' he whispered, the face beneath his shining silk hat pale and drawn.
'Yes.'
'Here? In the Park? At the height of the Season?'
'Yes. Do hurry.'
'But . . .'
'Mr Mulliner! Surely? To oblige me?'
She was gazing at him with pleading eyes, and from the confused welter of Cedric's thoughts there emerged, clear and crystal-like, the recollection of the all-important fact that this girl was the daughter of an Earl and related on her mother's side not only to the Somersetshire Meophams, but to the Brashmarleys of Bucks, the Widringtons of Wilts, and the Hilsbury-Hepworths of Hants. Could he refuse any request, however monstrous, proceeding from one so extremely well-connected?
He stood palsied. All his life he had prided himself on the unassailable orthodoxy of his costume. As a young man he had never gone in for bright ties. His rigidity in the matter of turned-up trousers was a byword. And, though the fashion had been set by an Exalted Personage, he had always stood out against even such a venial lapse as the wearing of a white waistcoat with a dinner-jacket. How little this girl knew the magnitude of the thing she was asking of him. He blinked. His eyes watered and his ears twitched. Hyde Park seemed to whirl about him.
And then, like a voice from afar, something seemed to whisper in his ear that this girl's second cousin, Adelaide, had married Lord Slythe and Sayle and that among the branches of the family were the Sussex Booles and the ffrench-ffarmiloes – not the Kent ffrench-ffarmiloes but the Dorsetshire lot. It just turned the scale.
'So be it!' said Cedric Mulliner.
For a few moments after he found himself alone, my cousin Cedric had all the appearance of a man at a loss for his next move. He stood rooted to the spot, staring spellbound at the saffron horrors which had blossomed on his hitherto blameless feet. Then, pulling himself together with a strong effort, he slunk to Hyde Park Corner, stopped a passing
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