2
No Wedding Bells for Bingo

Bingo reported three days later that Rosie M. Banks worked well. At the beginning, Old Little was not happy with the change of literary diet; but Bingo had read him Chapter One of All for Love and after everything went well. They had finished A Red, Red Summer Rose, Madcap Myrtle^[27] and Only a Factory Girl, and were reading The Courtship of Lord Strathmorlick^[28].

Bingo told me all this in a husky voice. The only thing to complain was his throat which was beginning to show signs of cracking under the strain. He was looking his symptoms in a medical dictionary, and he thought he had got “clergyman’s throat^[29].” But I was not sorry for him, because his aim was near, and also after the evening’s reading he always stayed on to dinner; and the dinners, as he told me, by old Little’s cook were excellent. There were tears in his eyes when he was talking about the clear soup^[30].

Old Little wasn’t able to take part in these banquets, but Bingo said that he came to the table and had his arrowroot^[31], and sniffed the dishes, and told stories of entrées^[32] he had had in the past. Anyhow, things seemed to be quite wonderful, and Bingo said he had got an idea. He wouldn’t tell me what it was.

“We make progress, Jeeves,” I said.

“That is very satisfactory, sir.”

“Mr Little tells me that when he came to the big scene^[33] in Only a Factory Girl, his uncle was crying like a baby.”

“Indeed, sir?”

“Where Lord Claude^[34] takes the girl in his arms, you know, and says—”

“I am familiar with the passage, sir. It is distinctly moving. It is my aunt’s favourite scene.”

“I think we’re on the right track.”

“It seems so, sir.”

“In fact, this looks like another success of yours. I’ve always said, and I always shall say, that you are a sage, Jeeves. All the other great thinkers of the age are nothing.”

“Thank you very much, sir. You can always rely on me.”

About a week after this, Bingo told the news that his uncle’s gout had ceased to trouble him, and that he would be back at the table with a knife and a fork as before.

“And, by the way,” said Bingo, “he wants you to lunch with him tomorrow.”

“Me? Why me? He doesn’t know I exist.”

“Oh, yes, he does. I’ve told him about you.”

“What have you told him?”

“Oh, various things. Anyhow, he wants to meet you. And take my tip, you’ll go! I think the lunch tomorrow will be something special.”

I don’t know why it was, but Bingo’s words sounded strange.

“There is something strange in it,” I said. “Why should your uncle ask a fellow to lunch whom he’s never seen?”

“My dear old fathead, haven’t I just said that I’ve been telling him all about you—that you’re my best friend—at school together, and all that sort of thing?”

“So what? Why do want me to come?”

Bingo hesitated for a moment.

“Well, I told you I’d got an idea. This is it. I want you to tell him the news. I’m not brave enough.”

“What!”

“And you call yourself a friend of mine!”

“Yes, I know; but there are limits.”

“Bertie,” said Bingo, “I saved your life once.”

“When?”

“Didn’t I? It must have been some other fellow, then. Well, anyway, we were studying at school together and all that. You can’t let me down^[35].”

“Oh, all right,” I said. “But, when you say you are not brave enough, you misjudge yourself. A fellow who—”

“Cheerio!^[36]” said young Bingo. “One-thirty tomorrow. Don’t be late.”

I can say that the more I thought about the lunch the less I liked the idea. It was all very well for Bingo to say that I was invited; but what if they would drive me out? However, at one-thirty next day I was at No. 16, Pounceby Gardens, and punched the bell. And half a minute later I was in the drawingroom, shaking hands with the fattest man I have ever seen in my life.

The motto of the Little family was evidently “variety”. Young Bingo is long and thin; but the uncle was like a square.

“Mr Wooster, I am gratified—I am proud—I am honoured.”

“Oh, ah!” I said.

He stepped back a bit.

“You are very young and did so much!”

I couldn’t follow his thought. My family, especially my Aunt Agatha^[37], have always told me that my existence is a wasted life, and that, since I won the prize at my school for the best collection of wild flowers made during the summer holidays, I haven’t done anything useful at all. I was wondering if he mixed me up with someone else, when the telephone bell rang outside in the hall, and the maid came in to say that I was wanted. I came down, and found it was young Bingo.

“Hallo!” said young Bingo. “So you’ve got there? Good man! I knew I could rely on you. Was my uncle pleased to see you?”

“Absolutely. I can’t understand why.”

“Oh, that’s all right. I just rang up to explain. The fact is, old man, I told him that you were the author of those books I’ve been reading to him.”

“What!”

“Yes, I said that “Rosie M. Banks” was your pen-name^[38], and you didn’t want it generally known, because you were a modest man. He’ll listen to you now. A bright idea, right? Well, go on, old lad, and remember that I can’t possibly marry on what I’ve got now. So try to persuade him to give me more money. At least double. Well, that’s that. Cheerio!”

And he rang off. At that moment the gong sounded, and my host came downstairs.

I always look back to that lunch with a sort of regret. It was the best lunch in my life, and I could not appreciate it. Subconsciously, if you know what I mean, I could see it was pretty special, but I was shocked with the ghastly situation in which young Bingo had landed me.

Old Little began:

“My nephew has probably told you that I have been studying your books?”

“Yes. He mentioned it. How—er—how did you like them?”

He gazed reverently at me.

“Mr Wooster, I am not ashamed to say that the tears came into my eyes as I listened to them. It amazes me that a man as young as you can be able to learn human nature so deeply; to write novels so true, so human, so moving, so vital!”

“Oh, it’s nothing special,” I said.

It was terribly hot in the room.

“Do you find the room a little warm?” he asked.

“Oh, no, no, rather not. Just right.”

“Then it’s the pepper. If my cook has a fault—which I am not prepared to admit—it is that she adores pepper. By the way, do you like her cooking?”

I was so relieved that we had changed the subject that I shouted approval.

“I am delighted to hear it, Mr Wooster. I may be prejudiced, but to my mind that woman is a genius.”

“Absolutely!” I said.

“She has been with me seven years, and in all that time I have not known her guilty of a single lapse from the highest standard. Except once, in the winter of 1917, a certain mayonnaise of hers was not soft enough. But there had been several air-raids^[39] about that time, and no doubt the poor woman was shaken. But nothing is perfect in this world, Mr Wooster. For seven years I have lived in constant apprehension lest some person might lure her. To my certain knowledge she has received offers, lucrative offers, to accept service elsewhere. You can imagine, Mr Wooster, my sorrow when she said that she was going to change her place of employment!”

“Good Lord!”

“Oh, my dear author of A Red, Red Summer Rose! But I am glad to say the worst has not happened. Jane^[40] is not leaving me.”

“Wonderful!”

“Wonderful, indeed. And, speaking of your books, may I say that what has impressed me about them even more than the actual narrative, is your philosophy of life. If there were more men like you, Mr Wooster, London would be a better place.”

This was opposite to my Aunt Agatha’s philosophy of life, she has always told me that it is the presence of guys like me that makes London a plague spot.

“Let me tell you, Mr Wooster, that I appreciate your splendid defiance of the fetishes of a social system. I appreciate it! I remember the words of Lord Bletchmore in Only a Factory Girl, “Be her origin never so humble, a good woman is the equal of the finest lady on earth!’ ”

“Really! Do you think that?”

“I do, Mr Wooster. I am ashamed to say that there was a time when I was like other men, a slave to the idiotic convention which we call Class Distinction. But, since I read your book—”

“You think it’s all right for a guy to marry a girl of what you might describe as the lower classes?”

“Of course I do, Mr Wooster.”

I took a deep breath, and told him the good news.

“Young Bingo—your nephew, you know—wants to marry a waitress,” I said.

“I honour him for it,” said Old Little.

“You don’t object?”

“On the contrary.”

I took another deep breath.

“I hope you won’t think I’m butting in^[41],” I said, “but—er—well, how about it?”

“I fear I do not quite follow you.”

“Well, I mean to say … The money you’re good enough to give him. He was rather hoping that you—because of his marriage—might add some money to his income.”

Old Little shook his head regretfully.

“I fear that can hardly be managed. You see, a man in my position must save every penny. I will gladly continue my nephew’s existing allowance, but beyond that I cannot go. It would not be fair to my wife.”

“What! But you’re not married?”

“Not yet. But I think about it. The lady who for years has cooked so well for me honoured me by accepting my hand this very morning.” A cold gleam of triumph came into his eye. “Now let them try to get her away from me!” he muttered.

“Young Mr Little has been calling you during the afternoon, sir,” said Jeeves that night, when I got home.

“No wonder,” I said. I had sent poor old Bingo a note by messenger-boy shortly after lunch.

“He seemed a little agitated.”

“I don’t wonder, Jeeves,” I said, “I’m afraid I’ve bad news for you. That scheme of yours—reading those books to old Mr Little and all that—has led to nowhere.”

“They did not soften him?”

“They did. That’s the whole trouble. Jeeves, I’m sorry to say that fiancée^[42] of yours—Miss Watson, you know—the cook, you know—well, she’s chosen riches, if you know what I mean.”

“Sir?”

“She’s got engaged to old Mr Little!”

“Indeed, sir?”

“You don’t seem much upset.”

“The fact is, sir, I had anticipated some such outcome.”

I stared at him. “Then why did you suggest me that scheme?”

“To tell you the truth, sir, I was not wholly happy with my relations with Miss Watson. I respect her exceedingly, but I have seen for a long time that we were not suited. Now, the other young person with whom I have an understanding—”

“Oh Lord, Jeeves! There isn’t another?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“For some weeks, sir. I was greatly attracted by her when I first met her at a subscription dance at Camberwell.”

“Oh Jesus! Not—”

Jeeves inclined his head gravely.

“Yes, sir. By an odd coincidence it is the same young person in whom young Mr Little has been so interested. Good night, sir.”