Get rid of the kinfolk!

 The house party, so numerous on the night of the ball and on his birthday, had melted down now to reasonable proportions. The second and third cousins had retired, flushed and gratified, to obscure dens from which they had emerged, and the castle housed only the more prominent members of the family, always harder to dislodge than the small fry. The Bishop still remained, and the Colonel. Besides these, there were perhaps a half a dozen more of the closer relations: to Lord Belpher's way of thinking, half a dozen too many. He was not fond of his family.

(from A Damsel in Distress, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

The old girl gets her point across

     "Lady Caroline has seen me at the castle," said his bride doubtfully, "but I shouldn't say she knows me. She has hardly spoken a dozen words to me."

    "There," said Reggie, earnestly, "you're in the luck, dear heart! The mater's a great speaker, especially in moments of excitement. I'm not looking forward to the time when she starts on me. Between ourselves, laddie, and meaning no disrespect to the dear soul, when the mater is moved and begins to talk, she uses up most of the language."

    "Outspoken, is she?"

    "I should hate the meet the person who could outspeak her," said Reggie.

(from A Damsel in Distress, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Portrait of a liver

     "I've a headache."

    "I thought you would have, laddie, when I saw you getting away with the liquid last night. An X-ray photograph of your liver would show something that looked like a crumpled oak-leaf studded with hobnails. You ought to take more exercise, dear heart. Except for sloshing that policeman, you haven't done anything athletic for years."

(from A Damsel in Distress, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Negligible. That's the word I want!

 The butler smiled indulgently. He did not understand what Reggie was talking about, but that did not worry him. He had long since come to the conclusion that Reggie was slightly mad, a theory supported by the latter's valet, who was of the same opinion. Keggs did not dislike Reggie, but intellectually he considered him negligible.

(from A Damsel in Distress, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Wodehouse occasionally will use "negligible" to describe characters who are not all they should be mentally, and it works very well. I wish I had thought of it. (I hope he didn't copyright it.)

But I do like his hat

     "Now then!" said the stout young man.

    George regarded him with a critical and unfriendly eye. He disliked this fatty degeneration excessively. Looking him up and down, he could find no point about him that gave him the least pleasure, with the single exception of the state of his hat, in the side of which he was rejoiced to perceive there was a large and unshapely dent.

(from A Damsel in Distress, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Not even friendship

 Whatever may be said of the possibility of love at first sight, in which theory George was now a confirmed believer, there can be no doubt that an exactly opposite phenomenon is of frequent occurrence. After one look at some people even friendship is impossible. Such a one, in George's opinion, was this gurgling excrescence underneath the silk hat. He comprised in his single person practically all the qualities which George disliked most. He was, for a young man, extraordinarily obese. Already a second edition of his chin had been published, and the perfectly-cut morning coat which encased his upper section bulged out in an opulent semi-circle. He wore a little moustache, which to George's prejudiced eye seemed more a complaint than a moustache. His face was red, his manner dictatorial, and he was touched in the wind. Take him for all in all he looked like a bit of bad news.

(from A Damsel in Distress, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Whipped before he got started

 The girl in brown was quite close now, and George was enabled to get a clearer glimpse of her. She more than fulfilled the promise she had given at a distance. Had she been constructed to his own specifications, she would not have been more acceptable in George's sight. And now she was going out of his life for ever. With an overwhelming sense of pathos, for there is no pathos more bitter than that of parting from someone we have never met, George hailed a taxicab which crawled at the side of the road; and, with all the refrains of all the sentimental song hits he had ever composed ringing in his ears, he got in and passed away.

(from A Damsel in Distress, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Where are the damsels?

 In the Middle Ages, for example, this girl would have been a Damsel; and in that happy time practically everybody whose technical rating was that of Damsel was in distress and only too willing to waive the formalities in return for services rendered by the casual passer-by. But the twentieth century is a prosaic age, when girls are merely girls and have no troubles at all. Were he to stop this girl in brown and assure her that his aid and comfort were at her disposal, she would undoubtedly call that large policeman from across the way, and the romance would begin and end within the space of thirty seconds, or, if the policeman were a quick mover, rather less.

(from A Damsel in Distress, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Cold water on a dream

     The only female in London who did not appear to be attached was a girl in brown who was coming along the sidewalk at a leisurely pace, looking about her in a manner that suggested that she found Piccadilly a new and stimulating spectacle.

    As far as George could see she was an extremely pretty girl, small and dainty, with a proud little tilt to her head and the jaunty walk that spoke of perfect health. She was, in fact, precisely the sort of girl that George felt he could love with all the stored-up devotion of an old buffer of twenty-seven who had squandered none of his rich nature in foolish flirtations. He had just begun to weave a rose-tinted romance about their two selves, when a cold reaction set in. Even as he paused to watch the girl threading her way through the crowd, the east wind jabbed an icy finger down the back of nis neck, and the chill of it sobered him. After all, he reflected bitterly, this girl was only alone because she was on her way somewhere to meet some confounded man. Besides there was no earthly chance of getting to know her. You can't rush up to pretty girls in the street and tell them you are lonely. At least, you can, but it doesn't get you anywhere except the police station.

(from A Damsel in Distress, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

In cahoots together

 The sun had gone in for the time being, and the east wind was frolicking round him like a playful puppy, patting him with a cold paw, nuzzling his ankles, bounding away and bounding back again, and behaving generally as east winds do when they discover a victim who has gone out without his spring overcoat. It was plain to George now that the sun and the wind were a couple of confidence tricksters working together as a team. The sun had disarmed him with specious promises and an air of cheery good fellowship, and had delivered him into the hands of the wind, which was now going through him with the thoroughness of the professional hold-up artist.

(from A Damsel in Distress, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Everything is good

 Cats washed themselves on doorsteps, preparatory to looking in for lunch at one of the numerous garbage cans which dotted the sidewalk. Waiters peered austerely from the windows of the two Italian restaurants which carry on the Lucretia Borgia tradition by means of one shilling and sixpence table d'hote luncheons. The proprietor of the grocery store on the corner was bidding a silent farewell to a tomato which even he, though a dauntless optimist, had been compelled to recognize as having outlived its utility. On all things the sun shone with a genial smile.

(from A Damsel in Distress, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Bad impression

     "Hullo-ullo-ullo! There you are! I mean to say, what?"

    He was conscious, as was his custom in her presence, of a warm, prickly sensation in the small of the back. Some kind of elephantiasis seemed to have attacked his hands and feet, swelling them to enormous proportions. He wished profoundly that he could get rid of his habit of helping with nervous laughter whenever he encountered the girl of his dreams. It was calculated to give her a wrong impression of a chap - make her think him a fearful chump and what not!

(from A Damsel In Distress, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Good news

 The body of a woman lay limply on the bed. Her long, grizzled hair hung in a dank rope over the pillow and blood was on her head and throat. But the blood was running freely, and Wimsey could have shouted for joy at the sight. Dead men do not bleed.

(from Unnatural Death, by Dorothy L. Sayers)

Foolish colleague

     "Well, first of all, the blow on the head had, of course, nothing whatever to do with the death. You saw yourself that there had been next to no bleeding. The wound was inflicted some time after death - no doubt to create the impression of an attack by a gang. Similarly with the cuts and scratches on the arms. They are the merest camouflage."

    "Exactly. Your colleague - "

    "My colleague, as you call him, is a fool," snorted the doctor. If that's a specimen of his diagnosis, I should think there would be a high death rate in Crow's Beach."

(from Unnatural Death, by Dorothy L. Sayers)

A cop has need of patience

     "It's all very well sitting round with your large disguised policemen outside Mrs. Forrest's flat," he said irritably, over bacon and eggs on Monday morning, "but you do realize, don't you, that we've still got no proof of murder. Not in one single case."

    "That's so," replied Parker, placidly.

    "Well, doesn't it make your blood boil?" said Wimsey.

    "Hardly," said Parker. "This kind of thing happens too often. If my blood boiled every time there was a delay in getting evidence, I should be in a perpetual fever. Why worry? It may be that perfect crime you're so fond of talking about - the one that leaves no trace. You ought to be charmed with it."

(from Unnatural Death, by Dorothy L. Sayers)

Roaming Catholic

     "I don't see as how we was meant to make an ordinary thing of religion that way - so disrespectful and nothing uplifting to the 'art about it. But there! we all 'as our failings, and Miss Climpson is a nice lady and that I must say, even if she is a Roaming Catholic or next door to one."

    Lord Peter thought that Roaming Catholic was rather an appropriate name for the more ultramontane section of the High Church party. At the moment, however, he felt he could not afford time for religious discussion, and set off for the church in quest of Miss Climpson.

(from Unnatural Death, by Dorothy L. Sayers)

Parker is not impressed

 "Well now, as to the medical problem - the means. I must say that up to now that appears completely insoluble. I am baffled, Watson (said he, his hawk-like eyes gleaming angrily from under the half-closed lids). Even I am baffled. But not for long! (he cried, with a magnificent burst of self-confidence). My Honour (capital H) is concerned to track this Human Fiend (capitals) to its hidden source, and nail the whited sepulchre to the mast even though it crush me in the attempt! Loud applause. His chin sank broodingly upon his dressing-gown, and he breathed a few gutteral notes into the bass saxophone which was the cherished companion of his solitary hours in the bathroom."

Parker ostentatiously took up the book which he had laid aside on Wimsey's entrance.

"Tell me when you've finished," he said, caustically.

(from Unnatural Death, by Dorothy L. Sayers)

Taken for granted

     Mr. Murbles read this letter through twice, very thoughtfully. To even his cautious mind, the thing began to look like the makings of a case. In his neat, elderly hand, he wrote a little note to Detective-Inspector Parker, begging him to call at Staple Inn at his earliest convenience.

    Mr. Parker, however, was experiencing nothing at that moment but inconvenience. He had been calling on solicitors for two whole days, and his soul sickened at the sight of a brass plate. He glanced at the long list in his hand, and distastefully counted up the scores of names that still remained unticked.

    Parker was one of those methodical, painstaking people whom the world could so ill spare. When he worked with Wimsey on a case, it was an understood thing that anything lengthy, intricate, tedious and soul-destroying was done by Parker. He sometimes felt that it was irritating of Wimsey to take this so much for granted. He felt so now.

(from Unnatural Death, by Dorothy L. Sayers)

Masculine friendships

     "Miss Climpson, you do believe, don't you, that a friendship ought to be fifty-fifty?"

    "That is the ideal friendship, I suppose," said Miss Climpson, thoughtfully, "but I think it is a very rare thing. Among women, that is. I doubt very much if I've ever seen an example of it. Men, I believe, find it easier to give and take in that way - probably because they have so many outside interests."

    "Men's friendships - oh yes! I know one hears a lot about them. But half the time, I don't believe they're real friendships at all. Men can go off for years and forget all about their friends. And they don't really confide in one another. Mary and I tell each other all our thoughts and feelings. Men seem just content to think each other good sorts without ever bothering about their inmost selves."

(from Unnatural Death, by Dorothy L. Sayers)

Epicene

 "She struck him as spinsterish - even epicene." (from Unnatural Death, by Dorothy L. Sayers)

I must admit that "epicene" is not a word that I have used often, or ever. I figure my vocabulary is at least average, but that simply is not a term that I have used. When my wife entered the room just now, I did not say, "My, you look simply epicene this morning, my dear," on the outside chance that it is a word that she knows but I do not. At least it is not something that she has ever told me that she tried to look. Stunning, perhaps - maybe ravishing - but never epicene, at least not until I look it up.

Before I look it up, I am going to assume that it has some kinship to "epicurean," and I have used that before, but not often to remember at this late date what it does mean.

[Pause for internet search]

Well, I missed it. It has nothing to do with the Greek philosopher Epicurus. What it means is "of indeterminate sex," which I ought to have reasoned from the context, but did not. Oh well, the way you learn words is to miss words (and I am very glad that I did not apply it to my wife).

Stick with the rough draft

     "Look here, Wimsey," he said, "I've had a call from Mrs. Forrest. She wants to write to you. I wouldn't give her your number, so if she calls and asks for Mr. Templeton, you will remember who you are, won't you?"

    "Righty-ho! Wonder what the fair lady wants."

    "It's probably occurred to her that she might have told a better story, and she wants to work off a few additions and improvements on you."

    "Then she'll probably give herself away. The rough sketch is frequently so much more convincing than the worked-up canvas."

(from Unnatural Death, by Dorothy L. Sayers)

Persistence wins out

     "You're not forgetting, I suppose," said Parker, rather dryly, "that before pinning down a murder to any particular motive, it is usual to ascertain that a murder has been committed? So far, all we know is that, after a careful post-mortem analysis, two qualified doctors have agreed that Miss Dawson died a natural death."

    "I wish you wouldn't keep on saying the same thing, Charles. It bores me so. It's like the Raven never flitting which, as the poet observes, still is sitting, still is sitting, inviting one to heave the pallid bust of Pallas at him and have done with it. You wait till I publish my epoch-making work: The Murderer's Vade-Medum, or 101 Ways of Causing Sudden Death. That'll show you I'm not a man to be trifled with."

    "Oh, well!" said Parker.

    But he saw the Chief Commissioner next morning and reported that he was at last disposed to take the Dawson case seriously.

(from Unnatural Death, by Dorothy L. Sayers)

Even lawyers

     "I've been going into this little matter while you were coming along," he said. "Awkward, eh? ha! Astonishing thing that people can't say what they men when they draw Acts, eh? ha! Why do you suppose it is, Lord Peter, eh? ha! Come now!"

    "I suspect it is because Acts are drawn up by lawyers," said Wimsey with a grin.

    "To make work for themselves, eh? I daresay you're right. Even lawyers must live, eh? ha! Very good."

(from Unnatural Death, by Dorothy L. Sayers)

Murder is murder

     "That reminds me," put in Parker, "suppose the great-niece is excluded from the inheritance, where does the money go?"

    "It goes to the Duchy of Lancaster - or in other words, to the Crown."

    "In fact," said Wimsey, "to no one in particular. Upon my soul, I really can't see that it's very much of a crime to bump a poor old thing off a bit previously when she's sufferin' horribly, just to get the money she intends you to have. Why should the Duchy of Lancaster have it? Who cares about the Duchy of Lancaster? It's like defrauding the Income Tax."

    "Ethically," observed Mr. Murbles, "there may be much to be said for your point of view. Legally, I am afraid, murder is murder, However frail the victim or convenient the result."

    "And Agatha Dawson didn't want to die," added Parker, "she said so."

    "No," said Wimsey, thoughtfully, "and I suppose she had a right to an opinion."

(from Unnatural Death, by Dorothy L. Sayers)

English grass

     "Murbles is coming round to dinner tonight, Charles," said Wimsey. "I wish you'd stop and have grub with us too. I want to put all this family history business before him."

    "Where are you dining?"

    "Oh, at the flat. I'm sick of restaurant meals. Bunter does a wonderful bloody steak and there are new peas and potatoes and genuine English grass. Gerald sent it up from Denver specially. You can't buy it. Come along. Ye olde English fare, don't you know, and a bottle of what Pepys call Ho Pryon. Do you good."

(from Unnatural Death, by Dorothy L. Sayers)

The reference to "English grass" puzzled me. I found one recipe on the internet for English grass soup, which might be what Wimsey is referring to.

Stop being Mr. Sunshine!

     "It's starting to rain," observed Parker, conversationally.

    "Look here, Charles, if you're going to bear up cheerfully and be the life and soul of the expedition, say so and have done with it. I've got a good, heavy spanner handy under the seat, and Bunter can help to bury the body."

(from Unnatural Death, by Dorothy L. Sayers)

How I would do it

     I have watched business leaders and politicians of every stripe for several decades, and I can tell you without hesitation that one of the surest signs of a dysfunctional individual is someone who surrounds himself with "Yes men" and sycophants. If I were in such a position, at my first staff meeting I would tell those reporting to me that the quickest way they can get fired is tell me what they think I want to hear instead of the brutal truth.

    Leaders ought to surround themselves with competent people who have the backbone to disagree with them. Obviously, the final word belongs with the person in authority - the buck stops at the President's desk - but if he is sincerely seeking what is best for the entity which he is managing, then he wants to hear dissenting opinions. Of course, if the Leader thinks that he knows everything and is seeking only ratification of what he thinks and is not sincerely desiring to arrive at the correct conclusion, then he will surround himself with sycophants who bow and scrape, but who do not contribute to the accuracy of the final decision making.

    Dysfunctional egomaniacs are dangerous individuals.

    

How to put pressure on an attorney

     "Still, we could make a few discreet inquiries, and meanwhile I'm going to totter up to Crofton with the jolly old 'bus."

    "Crofton?"

    "Where Miss Clara Whittaker and Miss Dawson used to live. I'm going to look for the man with the little black bag - the strange, suspicious solicitor, you remember, who came to see Miss Dawson two years ago, and was so anxious that she should make a will. I fancy he knows all there is to know about the Rev. Hallelujah and his claim. Will you come, too?"

    "Can't - not without special permission. I'm not officially on this case, you know."

    "You're on the Gotobed business. Tell the Chief you think they're connected. I shall need your restraining presence. No less ignoble pressure than that of the regular police force will induce a smoke-dried family lawyer to spill the beans."

(from Unnatural Death, by Dorothy l. Sayers)