She looked as if she had been poured into her clothes and had forgotten to say "when".
I see. Before you fell a victim to the feverish desire for reckless speculation which is so marked a characteristic of the American business man, what?
I don't know why it is, but women who have anything to do with Opera, even if they're only studying for it, always appear to run to surplus poundage.
I knew a chap who bumped his leg, and it turned black and had to be cut off at the knee.' ‘You do seem to mix with the most extraordinary people.
I've always treated the man with unremitting kindness, and if he wont do a little thing like this for me, I'll kick his spine through his hat.
In your walks about London you will sometimes see bent, haggard figures that look as if they had recently been caught in some powerful machinery. They are those fellows who got mixed up with Catsmeat when he was meaning well.
I'm bound to say that New York's a topping place to be exiled in. Everybody was awfully good to me, and there seemed to be plenty of things going on, and I'm a wealthy bird, so everything was fine.
Writing my books I enjoy. It is the thinking them out that is apt to blot the sunshine from my life.
Man's inability to get out of bed in the morning is a curious thing. One may reason with oneself clearly and forcibly without the slightest effect. One knows that delay means inconvenience. Perhaps it may spoil one's whole day. And one also knows that a single resolute heave will do the trick. But logic is of no use. One simply lies there.
What magic there is in a girl's smile! It is the raisin which, dropped in the yeast of male complacency, induces fermentation.
And now into the space of a few hours he had crammed enough variegated lunacy to equip all the March Hares in England and leave some over for the Mad Hatters.
Nobody is at his best in the matter of explanations if a lady whom he knows to be possessed of a firm belief in the incurable weakness of his intellect is looking fixedly at him during the recital.
Aunt Agatha's demeanor now was rather like that of one who, picking daisies on the railway, has just caught the down express in the small of the back.
There's too much of that where-every-prospect-pleases-and-only-man-is-vile stuff buzzing around for my taste.
You see, the catch about portrait-painting—I've looked into the thing a bit—is that you can't start painting portraits till people come along and ask you to, and they won't come and ask you to until you've painted a lot first.
Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. And until tonight I had always felt that there was a lot in it. I had never scorned a woman myself, but Pongo Twistleton once scorned an aunt of his, flatly refusing to meet her son Gerald at Paddington and give him lunch and see him off to school at Waterloo, and he never heard the end of it.
I spent the afternoon musing on Life. If you come to think of it, what a queer thing Life is! So unlike anything else, don't you know, if you see what I mean.
He sat looking at it with his eyes protruding in the manner popularized by snails, looking like something stuffed by a taxidermist who had learned his job from a correspondence course and had only got as far as lesson three.
It's a hell for the poor, in New York. An iron, grinding city. It frightens you. It's so big and hard and cruel. It takes the fight out of you.
Tricky devils, these novelists. The ink gets into their heads.
It has never been hard to tell the difference between a Scotsman with a grievance and a ray of sunshine.
I don't know if you know it, J.B., but you're the sort of fellow who causes hundreds to fall under suspicion when he's found stabbed in his library with a paper-knife of Oriental design.
Boyhood, like measles, is one of those complaints which a man should catch young and have done with, for when it comes in middle life it is apt to be serious.
Something that might have been a very hard and knobbly leg of mutton smote Lord Emsworth violently behind the ear:the sun was turned off at the main: the stars came out, many of them of a singular brightness.
This is the age of the specialist, and years ago Rollo had settled on his career. Even as a boy, hardly capable of connected thought, he had been convinced that his speciality, the one thing he could do really well, was to inherit money.
Jeeves—my man, you know—is really a most extraordinary chap. So capable. Honestly, I shouldn't know what to do without him.
I gave it up. The man annoyed me. I hadn't the slightest objection to his spending his time planning massacres for the bourgeoisie, but I was dashed if I could see why he couldn't do it with a bright and cheerful smile.
Jeeves, of course, is a gentleman's gentlemen, not a butler, but if the call comes, he can buttle with the best of them.
I mean, if you're asking a fellow to come out of a room so that you can dismember him with a carving knife, it's absurd to tack a 'sir' on to every sentence. The two things don't go together.
Musical comedy is the Irish stew of drama. Anything may be put into it, with the certainty that it will improve the general effect.
I never feel really comfortable unless I am either actually writing or have a story going. I could not stop writing.
A dog without influence or private means, if he is to make his way in the world, must have either good looks or amiability.
I was in that painful condition which occurs when one has lost one's first wind and has not yet got one's second.
A detective is only human. The less of a detective, the more human he is. Henry was not much of a detective, and his human.
Well, there it is. That's Jeeves. Where others merely smite the brow and clutch the hair, he acts. Napoleon was the same.
A moment before this voice spoke, Lord Emsworth had been smirking. He now congealed, and the smile passed from his lips like breath off a razor, to be succeeded be a tense look of anxiety and alarm.
What I mean is, if you're absolutely off your rocker, but don't find it convenient to be scooped into the luny-bin, you simply explain that, when you said you were a teapot, it was just your Artistic Temperament, and they apologize and go away. So I stood by to hear just how the A.T. had affected Clarence, the Cat's Friend, ready for anything.
A melancholy-looking man, he had the appearance of one who has searched for the leak in life's gas-pipe with a lighted candle.
What George was thinking was that the late king Herod had been unjustly blamed for a policy which had been both statesmanlike and in the interests of the public. He was blaming the mawkish sentimentality of the modern legal system which ranks the evisceration and secret burial of small boys as a crime.
It's one of the advantages I get from being a bachelor—and, according to my nearest and dearest, practically a half-witted bachelor at that. ‘It's no good trying to get Bertie to take the slightest interest' is more or less the slogan, and I'm bound to say I'm all for it. A quiet life is what I like.
Jeeves," I said, when I had washed off the stains of travel, "tell me frankly all about it. Be as frank as Lady Bablockhythe.
He groaned slightly and winced like Prometheus watching his vulture dropping in for lunch.
It's not that I don't trust you, Dunstable, it's simply that I don't trust you.
No novelists any good except me. Sovietski -- yah! Nastikoff -- bah! I spit me of zem all. No novelists anywhere any good except me. P. G. Wodehouse and Tolstoi not bad. Not good, but not bad. No novelists any good except me.
When you are discovered by a householder—with revolver—in his parlor at half-past three in the morning, it is surely an injudicious move to lay stress on your proficiency as a burglar. The householder may be supposed to take that for granted.