Mulliner Nights by P.G. Wodehouse

and
meek:
    They seem to have a yellow streak
    They never lay for other guys, to
flatten ‘em:
    They think they’ve done a darned
fine thing
    If they just buy the girl a ring
    Of imitation diamonds and
platinum.
    ‘Oh, it makes me sort of sad
    To think about Sir Galahad
    And all the knights of that
romantic day:
    To amuse a girl and charm her
    They would climb into their
armour
    And jump into the fray:
    They called her “Lady love”,
    They used to wear her little
glove,
    And everything that she said went:
    For those were the days when a
lady was a lady
    And a gent was a perfect gent.’
     
     
    A Ninepennyworth
of Sherry sighed.
    ‘True,’ he
murmured. ‘Very true.’
    The singer
continued:
     
     
    ‘Some night when they sat down to
dine,
    Sir Claude would say: “That girl
of mine
    Makes every woman jealous when
she sees her.”
    Then someone else would shout: “Behave,
    Thou malapert and scurvy knave,
    Or I will smite thee one upon the
beezer!”
    And then next morning in the
lists
    They’d take their lances in their
fists
    And mount a pair of chargers,
highly mettled:
    And when Sir Claude, so fair and
young,
    Got punctured in the leg or lung,
    They looked upon the argument as
settled.’
     
     
    The
Ninepennyworth of Sherry sighed again.
    ‘He’s right,’
he said. ‘We live in degenerate days, gentlemen. Where now is the fine old
tradition of derring-do? Where,’ demanded the Ninepennyworth of Sherry with
modest fervour, ‘shall we find in these prosaic modern times the spirit that
made the knights of old go through perilous adventures and brave dreadful
dangers to do their lady’s behest?’
    ‘In the
Mulliner family,’ said Mr Mulliner, pausing for a moment from the sipping of
his hot Scotch and lemon, ‘in the clan to which I have the honour to belong,
the spirit to which you allude still flourishes in all its pristine vigour. I
can scarcely exemplify this better than by relating the story of my cousin’s
son, Mervyn, and the strawberries.’
    ‘But I want to
listen to the concert,’ pleaded a Rum and Milk. ‘I just heard the curate clear
his throat. That always means “Dangerous Dan McGrew”.’
    ‘The story,’
repeated Mr Mulliner with quiet firmness, as he closed the door, ‘of my cousin’s
son, Mervyn, and the strawberries.’
     
    In the circles
in which the two moved (said Mr Mulliner) it had often been debated whether my
cousin’s son, Mervyn, was a bigger chump than my nephew Archibald — the one
who, if you recall, was so good at imitating a hen laying an egg. Some took one
side, some the other; but, though the point still lies open, there is no doubt
that young Mervyn was quite a big enough chump for everyday use. And it was
this quality in him that deterred Clarice Mallaby from consenting to become his
bride.
    He discovered
this one night when, as they were dancing at the Restless Cheese, he put the
thing squarely up to her, not mincing his words.
    ‘Tell me,
Clarice,’ he said, ‘why is it that you spurn a fellow’s suit? I can’t for the
life of me see why you won’t consent to marry a chap. It isn’t as if I hadn’t
asked you often enough. Playing fast and loose with a good man’s love is the
way I look at it.’
    And he gazed
at her in a way that was partly melting and partly suggestive of the dominant
male. And Clarice Mallaby gave one of those light, tinkling laughs and replied:
    ‘Well, if you
really want to know, you’re such an ass.’
    Mervyn could
make nothing of this.
    ‘An ass? How
do you mean an ass? Do you mean a silly ass?’
    ‘I mean a
goof,’ said the girl. A gump. A poop. A nitwit and a returned empty. Your name
came up the other day in the course of conversation at home, and mother said
you were a vapid and irreflective guffin, totally lacking in character and
purpose.’
    ‘Oh?’ said
Mervyn. ‘She did, did she?’
    ‘She did. And
while it isn’t often that I think along the same lines as mother, there — for
once — I consider her