Bertie: "Very possibly. Anyway, it has happened to me over and over again. It was what happened in the case of Honoria Glossop. She was notoriously one of the brainest women of her year at Girton, and she just gathered me in like a bull pup swallowing a piece of steak."
Jeeves: "Miss Pringle, I am informed, sir, was an even more brilliant scholar than Miss Glossop."
-------------------------------------------------------
Hahahahahahaha

In my demeanour, accordingly, as I rose to greet him, a close observer would have noted more than a touch of that To-what-am-I-indebted-for-honour-of-this-visit stuff. I was at a loss to imagine what he was doing invading my privacy like this, and another thing that had fogged me was why, having invaded it, he was standing staring at me in a stern, censorious sort of way, as if the sight of me had got right in amongest him, revolting his finest feelings. I might have been some dreg of society whom he had caught in the act of slipping a couple of ounces of cocaine to some other dreg.

And clever? He may have just about enough intelligence to open his mouth when he wants to eat, but no more.

Love is a delicate plant that needs constant tending and nurturing, and this cannot be done by snorting at the adored object like a gas explosion and calling her friends lice.

"A moment later," he went on, finding speech again, "she announced that she wished me to grow a mustache, too. She said – I quote her words – that when a man has a large pink face and a head like a pumpkin, a little something around the upper lip often does wonders in the way of easing the strain. Would you say my head was like a pumpkin, Wooster?"
"Not a bit, old man."
"Not like a pumpkin?"
"No, not like a pumpkin. A touch of the dome of St Paul*s, perhaps."

"Bertie, you*re extraordinary," she said.
"Eh? How do you mean, extraordinary?"
"All this nonsense you have been talking, trying to reconcile me and D*Arcy. Not that I don*t admire you for it. I think it*s rather wonderful of you. But then everybody says that, though you have a brain like a peahen, you*re the soul of kindness and generosity."
Well, I was handcapped here by the fact that, never having met a peahen, I was unable to estimate the quality of these fowl*s intelligence, but she had spoken as if they were a bit short of the grey matter, and I was about to ask her who the hell she meant by "everybody", when she resummed.
"You want to marry me yourself, don*t you?"

Then she spoke in what was, for her, a hushed voice. That is to say, while rattling the vases on the mantlepiece, it did not bring plaster down from the ceiling.

"My head is not like a pumpkin!"
"It is, too, like a pumpkin."
"It is not like a pumpkin at all. I have this on the authority of Bertie Wooster, who says it is more like the dome of St Paul*s."

For this ruthless relative has one all-powerful weapon which she holds constantly over my head like the sword of – of who was the chap? – Jeeves would know - and by means of which she can always bend me a her will - viz. the threat that if I don*t kick in she will bar me from her board and wipe Anatole*s cooking from my lips.

"An improvement, if such a thing were possible. Have you not sometimes felt in the past, Bertie, that, if Augustus had a fault, it was a tendency to be a little timid?"
I saw what she meant. "Oh, ah, yes, of course, definitely." I remembered something Jeeves had once called Gussie. "A sensitive plant, what?"
"Exactly. You know your Shelley, Bertie."
"Oh, am I?"

"That is the problem which is torturing me, Jeeves. I can*t make up my mind. You remember that fellow you*ve mentioned to me once or twice, who let something wait upon something? You know who I mean – the cat chap."
"Macbeth, sir, a character in a play of that name by the late William Shakespeare. He was described as letting "I dare not" wait upon "I would", like the poor cat i*the*adage."

Who was that lad they used to try to make me read at Oxford? Ship - Shop - Schopenhauer. That*s the name. A grouch of the most pronounced description. Well, Uncle Thomas, when his gastric juices have been giving him the elbow, can make Schopenahuer look like Pollyanna.

I would hardly have thought Attila the Hun could have done it, even if at the peak of his form.