it seemed to me that about here the stage-direction “exit cautiously” was written in my part. I gave poor old Freddie up in despair. If only he had said a word it might have been all right. But there he stood, speechless.
Just out of sight of the house I met Jeeves, returning from his stroll.
“Jeeves,” I said, “all is over. The thing’s finished. Poor dear old Freddie has made a complete ass of himself and killed the whole show.”
“Indeed, sir? What has actually happened?”
I told him.
“He fluffed in his lines,” I concluded. “Just stood there saying nothing, when if ever there was a time for eloquence, this was it. He … Great Scott! Look!”
We had come back within view of the cottage, and there in front of it stood six children, a nurse, two loafers, another nurse, and the fellow from the grocer’s. They were all staring.
Down the road came galloping five more children, a dog, three men and a boy, all about to stare.
And on our porch, as unconscious of the spectators as if they had been alone in the Sahara, stood Freddie and his Elizabeth, clasped in each other’s arms.
“Great Scott!” I said.
“It would appear, sir,” said Jeeves, “that everything has concluded most satisfactorily, after all.”
“Yes. Dear old Freddie may have been fluffy in his lines,” I said, “but his business certainly seems to have gone with a bang.”
“Very true, sir,” said Jeeves.