He seemed shy and apologetic. “Of course we don’t go into all of it—the donations of bread and cheese and sugar and such, or promissory notes (they’ve been recognized as legal obligations in the courts, you know). We haven’t had any of that, or selling cakes and ale for the enrichment of the couple. These are wealthy people. And we’ve dispensed with the ‘inviter.’ ”
“Oh, you have?” I asked ironically. “What, perchance, is he?”
“A professional in the business exclusively. He tramps the country for several days ahead and bids the householders with a set of humorous doggerel verses, or printed ballad. I’ve several works describing it all in the library downstairs. It used to be a universal thing in Wales, but it’s almost a dead-letter now.” He looked as if he were about to sigh.
“And you say that you’re reviving it for a couple who are not Welsh?”
“Welsh? Of course they’re not Welsh. Paula Lebetwood’s an American, and Sean Cosgrove—well, he’s an Irishman.”
“One hopes so. And how goes the Feast?”
“We’re being terribly festive! Under the circumstances, you know. . . .”
Here was the maddest, one might say the most pitiful, of Pendleton’s fancies. A Welsh Bidding Feast for setting up a couple in housekeeping—only minus the Welsh folk, minus the donations, minus the cakes and ale, minus the “inviter,” minus about everything, in fact, except the good intentions of the host! A ghost of a Bidding Feast.
“Surely, Crofts,” I remarked, “if you are trying to revive the good old Welsh customs, you might suggest a bundling party.”
He went red, but was too good-natured to take offence. “Nonsense, man. Don’t mention it. Why, it’s an immoral thing. Sermons used to be preached against it.”