Pigs Have Wings by P. G. Wodehouse Page B

completed – her packing done, her hair waved, her cat Freddie lodged with a friend down the road, and now she was musing dreamily on something her Uncle Sebastian had said over the telephone yesterday.
    The story he had told had of necessity been brief and sketchy, and she had still to learn in detail exactly what was expected of her on arrival at this Blandings Castle of which she had heard so much, but in the course of his remarks Uncle Sebastian had mentioned as the menace to the well-being of himself and associates a Sir Gregory Parsloe.
    She wondered if this could possibly be the Tubby Parsloe she had known so well in the days when she had been Maudie Montrose.

CHAPTER 4
    WITH THE POSSIBLE exception of Mrs Emily Post, a few of the haughtier Duchesses and the late Cornelia mother of the Gracchi, the British barmaid, trained from earliest years to behave with queenly dignity under the most testing conditions, stands alone in the matter of poise.
    It was no timid and fluttering Maudie Stubbs who stepped off the train next day at Market Blandings station. Where another representative of what is sometimes termed the burjoisy might have quailed at the thought of being plunged into so posh – or plushy – a nest of the aristocracy as Blandings Castle, she faced the prospect with equanimity, remaining as calm and composed as she would have been if entering a den of lions like the prophet Daniel or a burning fiery furnace like Shadrach, Meshack and Abednego. In her professional capacity, she had seen far too many members of the Peerage thrown out of the bar over which she presided for blue blood to mean anything to her.
    Gally, all eagerness to renew a friendship interrupted by time and change, had walked in to meet the train, and there was an affecting reunion on the station platform. After which, he had taken her off to the Emsworth Arms for a spot of refreshment. He felt she must be in need of it after her long journey, and apart from the altruistic desire to keep an old crony from fainting by the wayside, he thought it would be no bad thing to have a quick run-through before the rise of the curtain, just to make sure that she was letter perfect in her part.
    When two old friends get together after long separation, the proceedings always begin with a picking up of threads. The first old friend asks the second old friend for news of Jimmy So-and-so, while the second old friend asks the first old friend what has been heard of Billy Such-and-such. Inquiries are also instituted regarding Tom This, Dick That and Harry The other, with speculations as to whatever became of old Joe What’s-his-name, the chap who always used to do an imitation of a cat fight after his third whisky and splash.
    These routine preliminaries had been disposed of during the walk from the station, and now, as they sat at a rustic table in the garden behind the inn, sipping the beer for which the Emsworth Arms is so justly renowned, they were at liberty to speak of other things. To a man as gallant as the Hon. Galahad a compliment with reference to his companion’s appearance naturally suggested itself first, and he proceeded to pay it.
    ‘Well, well, well,’ he said, gazing at her with undisguised admiration. ‘Do you know you positively don’t look a dashed day older, Maudie? It’s amazing.’
    And indeed the years had dealt lightly with the erstwhile Maudie Montrose. A little more matronly, perhaps, than the girl with the hourglass figure who had played the Saint Bernard dog to the thirsty wayfarers at the old Criterion, she still made a distinct impression on the eye, and the landlord of the Emsworth Arms, his growing son Percy, and the half dozen Shropshire lads who were propping up the establishment’s outer wall, had stamped her with the seal of their pop-eyed approval. Her entrance had been in the nature of a social triumph.
    ‘It’s astounding,’ said Gaily. ‘One gasps. Put you in a bathing suit, add you to the line of contestants in