But the findings of such censors of morality were coldly received: and, after exchanging malice for the inside of a week, the latter reviled one another and elbowed and fought their way into what they had lately described as ‘the House of Rimmon.’
The fun became fast and furious.
Joint invitations which had been jointly declined were re-issued severally and severally accepted. Invitations which had not been sent were hastily extended. The dates of parties, dances, week-ends became actually contingent upon the Festivals’ ability to attend.
The pets had become lion-cubs.
Katharine gave a dance.
Giles was invited, and gave a dinner beforehand, taking his guests on. He danced twice with his hostess, enjoyed champagne he had chosen, sat out in his own library.
Giles gave a luncheon, inviting eleven guests. Of these his wife made one, and, taking her proper precedence, sat on her husband’s left. Afterwards, the Rolls being there, he dropped her at Sloane Street and was deliciously thanked.
That night they met at a ball in Belgrave Square, and the next week-end in Hampshire, as two of the Pleydells’ guests.
On five days out of seven they junketed side by side.
On Derby Day they went to the Daneboroughs’ dance—a brilliant affair, which blazed till nearly five on the following day. Its remembrance was slightly marred by Mrs. Festival’s omission to take her latchkey and subsequent inability to ‘make her servants hear.’ Necessity knows no law. Giles, who had left early, was roused from a refreshing slumber by the night-porter of his Club and apprised of the facts. . . . There was only one thing to be done. He did it gallantly, with a suit over his pyjamas and pumps on his naked feet. The aggravated assault which he presently committed upon his own front door was audibly condemned by several infuriated residents in Berkeley Square. His butler, who had just got to sleep again, also condemned it with great savagery, but, after hoping against hope that the reinforcement his mistress had unearthed would also lose heart, himself at last succumbed to Captain Festival’s importunity. . . . His work over, the latter returned to his Club, wondering whether he could with decency suggest that a duplicate latchkey should be kept at the nearest police station. He need not have troubled his head. The following day, a gong the size of a soup-plate was installed beneath the butler’s bedstead. Upon observing its dimensions, the butler was greatly moved, but, while declaring in the servants’ hall that Katharine was no lady, he was forced to admit to himself that his mistress was no fool.