The Girl on the Boat. P. G. Wodehouse

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      Mrs. Hignett strode to the door with a forbidding expression. This, as she had justly remarked, was intolerable. She remembered Bream Mortimer. He was the son of the Mr. Mortimer who wanted Windles. This visit could only have to do with the subject of Windles, and she went into the dining-room in a state of cold fury, determined to squash the Mortimer family, in the person of their New York representative, once and for all.

      "Good morning, Mr. Mortimer."

      Bream Mortimer was tall and thin. He had small bright eyes and a sharply curving nose. He looked much more like a parrot than most parrots do. It gave strangers a momentary shock of surprise when they saw Bream Mortimer in restaurants, eating roast beef. They had the feeling that he would have preferred sunflower seeds.

      "Morning, Mrs. Hignett."

      "Please sit down."

      Bream Mortimer looked as though he would rather have hopped on to a perch, but he sat down. He glanced about the room with gleaming, excited eyes.

      "Mrs. Hignett, I must have a word with you alone!"

      "You are having a word with me alone."

      "I hardly know how to begin."

      "Then let me help you. It is quite impossible. I will never consent."

      Bream Mortimer started.

      "Then you have heard about it?"

      "I have heard about nothing else since I met Mr. Bennett in London. Mr. Bennett talked about nothing else. Your father talked about nothing else. And now," cried Mrs. Hignett, fiercely, "you come and try to re-open the subject. Once and for all, nothing will alter my decision. No money will induce me to let my house."

      "But I didn't come about that!"

      "You did not come about Windles?"

      "Good Lord, no!"

      "Then will you kindly tell me why you have come?"

      Bream Mortimer seemed embarrassed. He wriggled a little, and moved his arms as if he were trying to flap them.

      "You know," he said, "I'm not a man who butts into other people's affairs. … " He stopped.

      "No?" said Mrs. Hignett.

      Bream began again.

      "I'm not a man who gossips with valets. … "

      "No?"

      "I'm not a man who. … "

      Mrs. Hignett was never a very patient woman.

      "Let us take all your negative qualities for granted," she said curtly. "I have no doubt that there are many things which you do not do. Let us confine ourselves to issues of definite importance. What is it, if you have no objection to concentrating your attention on that for a moment, that you wish to see me about?"

      "This marriage."

      "What marriage?"

      "Your son's marriage."

      "My son is not married."

      "No, but he's going to be. At eleven o'clock this morning at the Little Church Round the Corner!"

      Mrs. Hignett stared.

      "Are you mad?"

      "Well, I'm not any too well pleased, I'm bound to say," admitted Mr. Mortimer. "You see, darn it all, I'm in love with the girl myself!"

      "Who is this girl?"

      "Have been for years. I'm one of those silent, patient fellows who hang around and look a lot but never tell their love. … "

      "Who is this girl who has entrapped my son?"

      "I've always been one of those men who. … "

      "Mr. Mortimer! With your permission we will take your positive qualities, also, for granted. In fact, we will not discuss you at all. You come to me with this absurd story. … "

      "Not absurd. Honest fact. I had it from my valet who had it from her maid."

      "Will you please tell me who is the girl my misguided son wishes to marry?"

      "I don't know that I'd call him misguided," said Mr. Mortimer, as one desiring to be fair. "I think he's a right smart picker! She's such a corking girl, you know. We were children together, and I've loved her for years. Ten years at least. But you know how it is—somehow one never seems to get in line for a proposal. I thought I saw an opening in the summer of nineteen-twelve, but it blew over. I'm not one of these smooth, dashing chaps, you see, with a great line of talk. I'm not. … "

      "If you will kindly," said Mrs. Hignett impatiently, "postpone this essay in psycho-analysis to some future occasion, I shall be greatly obliged. I am waiting to hear the name of the girl my son wishes to marry."

      "Haven't I told you?" said Mr. Mortimer, surprised. "That's odd. I haven't. It's funny how one doesn't do the things one thinks one does. I'm the sort of man. … "

      "What is her name?"

      " … the sort of man who. … "

      "What is her name?"

      "Bennett."

      "Bennett? Wilhelmina Bennett? The daughter of Mr. Rufus Bennett? The red-haired girl I met at lunch one day at your father's house?"

      "That's it. You're a great guesser. I think you ought to stop the thing."

      "I intend to."

      "Fine!"

      "The marriage would be unsuitable in every way. Miss Bennett and my son do not vibrate on the same plane."

      "That's right. I've noticed it myself."

      "Their auras are not the same colour."

      "If I've thought that once," said Bream Mortimer, "I've thought it a hundred times. I wish I had a dollar for every time I've thought it. Not the same colour. That's the whole thing in a nutshell."

      "I am much obliged to you for coming and telling me of this. I shall take immediate steps."

      "That's good. But what's the procedure? It's getting late. She'll be waiting at the church at eleven."

      "Eustace will not be there."

      "You think you can fix it?"

      "Eustace will not be there," repeated Mrs. Hignett.

      Bream Mortimer hopped down from his chair.

      "Well, you've taken a weight off my mind."

      "A mind, I should imagine, scarcely constructed СКАЧАТЬ