“I want real flowers on my cake,” I announced.
“Impossible, we never do such a thing,” he replied.
“Then you must do it now, do it for me.”
Much palaver, and Mr. Buszard and I crossed the street together to a little flower shop, with the result that those three tiers of wedding-cake were decked with natural blooms and a tall vase of white flowers as a central ornament.
Everyone has natural flowers nowadays.
I travelled away with the top tier of my cake, and ate bits of it in France, Switzerland, Italy, and Germany, during our three months’ honeymoon.
We took one of the houses at the top of Harley Street, overlooking Regent’s Park, where squirrels frolic and wood pigeons cry, and there, in York Terrace, where the muffin man rings his bell on Sundays and George IV lamp-posts hold our light, I still live.
Apropos of this street, Sir Arthur Grant of Monymusk once told me a curious story.
His grandfather owned many houses in the neighbourhood in the beginning of the nineteenth century, and whenever one was empty he put an old caretaker in who had once been a personal servant. On one occasion one of the houses was to let. A lady and gentleman arrived in a carriage and asked to see over it. The caretaker showed them round and they seemed pleased with everything. They asked many questions and lingered some time, and when they left, to the surprise of the caretaker, they handed her a sovereign.