David had often protested against his friend’s wasteful habit of treating invitations as useless but ornamental, not even answering Commands from exiled Royalties. (The fame of The Mongoose had reached Cannes and Twickenham.) But Gaveston would have none of it.
“No, David,” he would always answer, “they aren’t wasted. The only invitations worth having are the second ones.”
Besides, in the dear, far-off days of Karlsbad and Knocke and Karsino his mother had often nonchalantly warned him against the trickeries of foreign titles. (There had been a Polish Prince once whom Gaveston was already learning to call “Daddy” when he turned out to be a Turkish Bath attendant absconding from Arkansas.…)
At first Gaveston intended to put all the invitations into the waste-paper basket, and draw one (or perhaps two) out, leaving the choice of the lucky hostess to chance, but the sight of a letter written in Black Letter on vellum paper made him hesitate. Was it not too dangerous a lottery? He took the letter up and read—
Telegrams: Novena, Wilts.
Stations: Highchurch and Deane.
Minsterby Priory,
Abbot’s Acre,
Wilts, Eng.
Vigil of St. Quinquagesima.
Dear Mr. ffoulis,—
The Baron and I would be happy beyond words if we could count you among our quite tiny party for Holy Week and Eastertide. The Baron, of course, is a cousin of dear Prenderby Rooke (the financier, you know), who had a lot of business with your step-father in the old days. So we aren’t exactly strangers, are we? Do come.