And already he could see, foreshortened before him in a (should he venture?) prescient perspective, all that weary business of the toilette regulated by a complicated, and never, before the day of departure, fully comprehended, system of gongs, and that winding circuitous descent down gradually broadening and more and more elaborately balustraded staircases to a long, but to Gaveston’s taste (he was a real gourmand) hopelessly agricultural (he could not conscientiously call it a dinner, but rather, a) meal.…
However, he’ld have to go through with it now. He owed that to his mother.
For it was by Lady Penhaligon’s request, cabled from Canterbury, Pa., a fortnight ago, that he had accepted Lord Jordan’s invitation (the fourth) to spend a frankly rather political week-end at Oylecombe Towers. Her wire had decided him.
Gav dear do go Jordans if they ask such old friends of dear Joey how cold here do wrap up well dear spring days so deceptive have you met boy called David Paunceford love Mums
And with the compression of a skilled journalist he had answered.
Been Jonathan years kisses Gav
And here he was.…