The Voice that Breathed O’er Eden

I have the honor of announcing that a certain chic West End address will soon be enlivened by a blushing bride and, if our union is blessed, the pitter patter of little feet.

The Wooster intended is a nuclear physicist of some reknown. I’ve always thought that had something to do with doctoring the innards of those cell thingummies, but as Jeeves explains it, she puts on a fetching white coat and in the company of other research johnnies exchanges bon mots about glowing things and those bombs Americans always gas on about. Jeeves says her publication, “certain aspects of decay phenomena in K isotopes reconsidered” is thought quite the gripping little tale among those who like that sort of thing, and I dare say he is right. But I will not be deceiving my audience if I say that it was her espeglierie of the espeglieriest and her cornflower blue eyes of the sort mother makes which first attracted the languid gaze of this jaded, world-weary boulevardier. Me, I mean, I want these things to be perfectly clear. One also mentions her neckline, highly reminiscent of those diver chappies, plungy I mean, and a profile so electric that the State of Texas uses it for capital punishment to the mutual satisfaction of all concerned. And if you ask me if she’s one of those harum-scarum girls who get a fellow into scrapes I’ll say, no, sir, that’s not my baby, no, sir, I don’t mean maybe. She’s the 100% Wooster-recommended, Wooster-approved kind who is never happier than when spending a quiet evening at home among her books. She has also passed the supreme test. On hazard I asked her if fairies were the stars’ daisy-chain, or rather the other way around, and she replied that the hypothesis was one that had no appeal to her, which just goes to show. What ho, I said to myself, this girl is ripping.

Update:
The party of the second part tells me I’m in error re our upcoming nuptials, and she would be in a position to know, I dare say, what? Must be faulty staff work in the Wooster HQ. But I mean to say, when a fellow walks with a personable young physicistess among the roses of an evening and points out in a strangled voice that its a dashed fine evening, and the personable young ph. says ‘yes,’ and I say, “the, ah, flowers and the moon,” and she says yes and then a fellow stammers and gargles and twists his hands and says “will you?” and she says yes, and then the fellow showers burning kisses on her upturned face, or at least I would have if I hadn’t tripped, then as I work it out the fellow ought to feel that the second half of the sketch is more or less his betrothed mate, what? I should think the meaning of the foregoing was perfectly clear to the meanest intelligence. But she tells me with wide-eyed sincerity that she thought I was asking her to boost my outdoor contortionist act to all her friends and she was saying, yes, of course she would, it was a doozy. The poor girl must be goofy. She must be half off her onion. The way I see it, I’ve had a narrow escape, and that’s official.

Update the Second:
Sweethearts still. All that guff about the circus was so much guff, the product of, If I’ve got it right, unbiddable lightness of being.