"You know how that sort of thing ends, I suppose?" I took occasion to ask.
"Oh, don't be heavy, George!" she exclaimed impatiently. "We can only die once."
"To some extent we can postpone the date," I suggested.
"Who wants to? A short life and a merry one. This is a dull show, you know. How do you come to be here?"
"My name was gleaned from an obsolete work of reference," I said, producing a card with 'M.P.' on it. "And you?"
"Oh, I wasn't selected at all. Fatty Webster smuggled me in." She dropped her voice confidentially. "George, this is a deadly secret. Mrs. Marsden, who's responsible for this—this funeral, told mother she wanted to break down the exclusiveness of London Society——"
"Many taunts have been hurled at that indeterminate class," I observed. "No one ever called it exclusive before."
"It's exclusive if you're from Yorkshire, like her, with a perfectly poisonous taste in dress. Well, all the girls come from Highgate Ponds—Lord Summertown told me so——"
"He ought to know," I said.
"And all the men from Turnham Green. You know, where the buses come from. Fatty Webster heard what it was going to be like, so he and Sam and Lord Summertown went off to Fatty's rooms in Albemarle Street; they've changed into corduroys and red handkerchiefs, and they're pulling up Piccadilly in solid chunks with pickaxes. It's the greatest fun in life. I went to see them half an hour ago. They've got lanterns and ropes and things, and they're doing frightful damage. And the best of it is that it's pouring with rain and none of the cars can get to either door."