By: P.G. Wodehouse
“Chaos!” moaned Lady Constance.
“Just you start in joshing my poems and see how quick I’ll bean you with a brick.”
“You seem to imply that I am some sort of a criminal.”
“Beetles. Always had a horror of beetles. Ever since I was a kid.”
“Pals, pardner, pals! Pals till hell freezes!” cried Freddie, deeply moved.
“I forgot to mention, when asking you to marry me, that I can do card tricks.”
“But, Liz!” said the tree plaintively.
“I thought Lady Constance’s necklace was in one of the flowerpots,” he shrilled.
Once, as a child, he had taken a dead pet rabbit, but never a flowerpot.
No solicitude for his employer’s geraniums came to hamper Rupert Baxter’s researches.
He took the entire staircase in one majestic, volplaning sweep.
“Did someone steal Lady Constance’s necklace tonight?”
“Ladies and gentlemen, I think the lights have gone out.”
“Are you really choosing this moment to — to propose to me?”
“Of course,” argued Mr. Keeble, “it isn’t really stealing.”