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“...so you'll understand why our joining in holy matrimony is impossible,” concluded Honoria after some lengthy explanation the duration of which I had worried my elbow she'd end this sentence sort of completely oppositely, don't you know.
“Ah, yes, rather!” I sighed, much relieved. But really, I needn't have worried. Jeeves's schemes always end up ending well, in the end. “Topping!”
“You haven't listened to a word I said, have you, Bertie?”
“I say! Of course I have! That is, I mean to say-”
“Oh, shut it, you ass. The short version is: We can't marry because I sail for Greece.”
“What! What! When is your ship?”
“Not like that, Bertie,” she said sternly and very much like a General that was disappointed in their soldier. “Good Lord. Haven't you ever heard of Sappho?”
“The poet beazel?”
“Yes.” Honoria kind of looked at me intently. I gave the lemon a pensive scratch. I thought that perhaps Jeeves had mentioned her once, because he has mentioned almost all of the poets and philosophers and great thinkers to me.
Something in the dark and faraway corners of the Wooster brain finally seemed to stir at the fifth-and-a-half scratch.
“Oh! Oh, I see! My word, why didn't you say so?”
“I just did, you clod. Anyway, I'm telling you now because I rather thought we might be the same in regards to our proclivities.”
“What a preposterous notion! No, no, dearest Honoria, old chum and so on, you're absolutely wrong! You couldn't possibly be more wrong if you tried. Me! Love a woman! What a ridiculous idea.”
I barely dodged the steely fist that descended upon me to strike my arm. The second blow no one could have evaded.
“Oh, Bertie!” she laughed and ruffled my hair.