By: P.G. Wodehouse

“But, Liz!” said the tree plaintively.

By: P.G. Wodehouse

“I thought Lady Constance’s necklace was in one of the flowerpots,” he shrilled.

By: P.G. Wodehouse

Once, as a child, he had taken a dead pet rabbit, but never a flowerpot.

By: P.G. Wodehouse

No solicitude for his employer’s geraniums came to hamper Rupert Baxter’s researches.

By: P.G. Wodehouse

He took the entire staircase in one majestic, volplaning sweep.

By: P.G. Wodehouse

“Did someone steal Lady Constance’s necklace tonight?”

By: P.G. Wodehouse

“Ladies and gentlemen, I think the lights have gone out.”

By: P.G. Wodehouse

“Are you really choosing this moment to — to propose to me?”

By: P.G. Wodehouse

“Of course,” argued Mr. Keeble, “it isn’t really stealing.”

By: P.G. Wodehouse

“Oh, thinking?” said Freddie, impressed. “Right-ho!”

By: P.G. Wodehouse

“You’re dashed hard on a fellow,” said Freddie.

By: P.G. Wodehouse

A damp face with twigs sticking to it was protruding from a nearby yew.

By: P.G. Wodehouse

“You persist in the delusion that my name is William.”

By: P.G. Wodehouse

“I’d like to knock you for a goal!”

By: P.G. Wodehouse

“When it comes to doping out a scheme, you’re the snake’s eyebrows!”