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CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER
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<|quote|>CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER</|quote|>"Was anyone hurt?" "No one,
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<|quote|>CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER</|quote|>"Was anyone hurt?" "No one, I am thankful to say,"
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<|quote|>CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER</|quote|>"Was anyone hurt?" "No one, I am thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver, "except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need
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<|quote|>CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER</|quote|>"Was anyone hurt?" "No one, I am thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver, "except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before
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<|quote|>CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER</|quote|>"Was anyone hurt?" "No one, I am thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver, "except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after
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<|quote|>CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER</|quote|>"Was anyone hurt?" "No one, I am thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver, "except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite
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<|quote|>CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER</|quote|>"Was anyone hurt?" "No one, I am thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver, "except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's
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<|quote|>CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER</|quote|>"Was anyone hurt?" "No one, I am thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver, "except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one
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A Handful Of Dust
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<|quote|>CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER</|quote|>"Was anyone hurt?" "No one, I am thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver, "except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one
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No speaker
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"Was anyone hurt?"
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John Beaver
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DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER<|quote|>"Was anyone hurt?"</|quote|>"No one, I am thankful
|
CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER<|quote|>"Was anyone hurt?"</|quote|>"No one, I am thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver,
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CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER<|quote|>"Was anyone hurt?"</|quote|>"No one, I am thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver, "except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything
|
CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER<|quote|>"Was anyone hurt?"</|quote|>"No one, I am thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver, "except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs
|
CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER<|quote|>"Was anyone hurt?"</|quote|>"No one, I am thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver, "except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death.
|
CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER<|quote|>"Was anyone hurt?"</|quote|>"No one, I am thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver, "except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business
|
CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER<|quote|>"Was anyone hurt?"</|quote|>"No one, I am thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver, "except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget."
|
CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER<|quote|>"Was anyone hurt?"</|quote|>"No one, I am thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver, "except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER<|quote|>"Was anyone hurt?"</|quote|>"No one, I am thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver, "except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver
|
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"content": "CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER<|quote|>\"Was anyone hurt?\"</|quote|>\"No one, I am thankful to say,\" said Mrs Beaver, \"except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up.\" Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. \"Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it.\" \"But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have.\" \"That's true, my son.\" * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver",
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John Beaver
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"No one, I am thankful to say,"
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Mrs. Beaver
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CHEZ BEAVER "Was anyone hurt?"<|quote|>"No one, I am thankful to say,"</|quote|>said Mrs Beaver, "except two
|
CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER "Was anyone hurt?"<|quote|>"No one, I am thankful to say,"</|quote|>said Mrs Beaver, "except two housemaids who lost their heads
|
CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER "Was anyone hurt?"<|quote|>"No one, I am thankful to say,"</|quote|>said Mrs Beaver, "except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water
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CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER "Was anyone hurt?"<|quote|>"No one, I am thankful to say,"</|quote|>said Mrs Beaver, "except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood
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CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER "Was anyone hurt?"<|quote|>"No one, I am thankful to say,"</|quote|>said Mrs Beaver, "except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest
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CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER "Was anyone hurt?"<|quote|>"No one, I am thankful to say,"</|quote|>said Mrs Beaver, "except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved
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CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER "Was anyone hurt?"<|quote|>"No one, I am thankful to say,"</|quote|>said Mrs Beaver, "except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely,
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CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER "Was anyone hurt?"<|quote|>"No one, I am thankful to say,"</|quote|>said Mrs Beaver, "except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made
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A Handful Of Dust
|
CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER "Was anyone hurt?"<|quote|>"No one, I am thankful to say,"</|quote|>said Mrs Beaver, "except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made
|
{
"messages": [
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"content": "You are helpful",
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"content": "CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER \"Was anyone hurt?\"<|quote|>\"No one, I am thankful to say,\"</|quote|>said Mrs Beaver, \"except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up.\" Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. \"Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it.\" \"But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have.\" \"That's true, my son.\" * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. \"What was your evening?\" \"Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet.\" \"I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made",
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|
Mrs. Beaver
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said Mrs Beaver,
|
No speaker
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I am thankful to say,"<|quote|>said Mrs Beaver,</|quote|>"except two housemaids who lost
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"Was anyone hurt?" "No one, I am thankful to say,"<|quote|>said Mrs Beaver,</|quote|>"except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through
|
CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER "Was anyone hurt?" "No one, I am thankful to say,"<|quote|>said Mrs Beaver,</|quote|>"except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they
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CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER "Was anyone hurt?" "No one, I am thankful to say,"<|quote|>said Mrs Beaver,</|quote|>"except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back
|
CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER "Was anyone hurt?" "No one, I am thankful to say,"<|quote|>said Mrs Beaver,</|quote|>"except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant
|
CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER "Was anyone hurt?" "No one, I am thankful to say,"<|quote|>said Mrs Beaver,</|quote|>"except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least
|
CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER "Was anyone hurt?" "No one, I am thankful to say,"<|quote|>said Mrs Beaver,</|quote|>"except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a
|
CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER "Was anyone hurt?" "No one, I am thankful to say,"<|quote|>said Mrs Beaver,</|quote|>"except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his
|
A Handful Of Dust
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CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER "Was anyone hurt?" "No one, I am thankful to say,"<|quote|>said Mrs Beaver,</|quote|>"except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his
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"content": "CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER \"Was anyone hurt?\" \"No one, I am thankful to say,\"<|quote|>said Mrs Beaver,</|quote|>\"except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up.\" Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. \"Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it.\" \"But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have.\" \"That's true, my son.\" * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his",
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"except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up."
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Mrs. Beaver
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to say," said Mrs Beaver,<|quote|>"except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up."</|quote|>Mrs Beaver stood with her
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"No one, I am thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver,<|quote|>"except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up."</|quote|>Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating
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CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER "Was anyone hurt?" "No one, I am thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver,<|quote|>"except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up."</|quote|>Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should
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CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER "Was anyone hurt?" "No one, I am thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver,<|quote|>"except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up."</|quote|>Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in
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CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER "Was anyone hurt?" "No one, I am thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver,<|quote|>"except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up."</|quote|>Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers
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CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER "Was anyone hurt?" "No one, I am thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver,<|quote|>"except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up."</|quote|>Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her
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CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER "Was anyone hurt?" "No one, I am thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver,<|quote|>"except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up."</|quote|>Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a
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CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER "Was anyone hurt?" "No one, I am thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver,<|quote|>"except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up."</|quote|>Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford
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A Handful Of Dust
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CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER "Was anyone hurt?" "No one, I am thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver,<|quote|>"except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up."</|quote|>Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford
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"content": "CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER \"Was anyone hurt?\" \"No one, I am thankful to say,\" said Mrs Beaver,<|quote|>\"except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up.\"</|quote|>Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. \"Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it.\" \"But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have.\" \"That's true, my son.\" * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford",
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Mrs. Beaver
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Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon.
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No speaker
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Mrs Shutter snaps them up."<|quote|>Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon.</|quote|>"Heavens, how nasty this stuff
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this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up."<|quote|>Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon.</|quote|>"Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take
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drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up."<|quote|>Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon.</|quote|>"Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * *
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thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver, "except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up."<|quote|>Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon.</|quote|>"Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without
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CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER "Was anyone hurt?" "No one, I am thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver, "except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up."<|quote|>Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon.</|quote|>"Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered
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CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER "Was anyone hurt?" "No one, I am thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver, "except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up."<|quote|>Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon.</|quote|>"Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and
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CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER "Was anyone hurt?" "No one, I am thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver, "except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up."<|quote|>Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon.</|quote|>"Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began
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CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER "Was anyone hurt?" "No one, I am thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver, "except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up."<|quote|>Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon.</|quote|>"Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here,
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A Handful Of Dust
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CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER "Was anyone hurt?" "No one, I am thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver, "except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up."<|quote|>Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon.</|quote|>"Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here,
|
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"content": "CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER \"Was anyone hurt?\" \"No one, I am thankful to say,\" said Mrs Beaver, \"except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up.\"<|quote|>Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon.</|quote|>\"Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it.\" \"But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have.\" \"That's true, my son.\" * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. \"What was your evening?\" \"Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet.\" \"I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad.\" \"Poor mumsy.\" \"I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here,",
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"Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it."
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Mrs. Beaver
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and gobbled with a spoon.<|quote|>"Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it."</|quote|>"But, mumsy, I haven't as
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carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon.<|quote|>"Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it."</|quote|>"But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you
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everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon.<|quote|>"Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it."</|quote|>"But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant
|
no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon.<|quote|>"Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it."</|quote|>"But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had
|
CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER "Was anyone hurt?" "No one, I am thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver, "except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon.<|quote|>"Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it."</|quote|>"But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four
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CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER "Was anyone hurt?" "No one, I am thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver, "except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon.<|quote|>"Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it."</|quote|>"But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at
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CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER "Was anyone hurt?" "No one, I am thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver, "except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon.<|quote|>"Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it."</|quote|>"But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's
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CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER "Was anyone hurt?" "No one, I am thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver, "except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon.<|quote|>"Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it."</|quote|>"But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes
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A Handful Of Dust
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CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER "Was anyone hurt?" "No one, I am thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver, "except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon.<|quote|>"Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it."</|quote|>"But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes
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"content": "CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER \"Was anyone hurt?\" \"No one, I am thankful to say,\" said Mrs Beaver, \"except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up.\" Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon.<|quote|>\"Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it.\"</|quote|>\"But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have.\" \"That's true, my son.\" * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes",
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Mrs. Beaver
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"But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have."
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John Beaver
|
through my day without it."<|quote|>"But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have."</|quote|>"That's true, my son." *
|
know how I should get through my day without it."<|quote|>"But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have."</|quote|>"That's true, my son." * * * * * John
|
to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it."<|quote|>"But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have."</|quote|>"That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded
|
had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it."<|quote|>"But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have."</|quote|>"That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room)
|
CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER "Was anyone hurt?" "No one, I am thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver, "except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it."<|quote|>"But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have."</|quote|>"That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked
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CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER "Was anyone hurt?" "No one, I am thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver, "except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it."<|quote|>"But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have."</|quote|>"That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the
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CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER "Was anyone hurt?" "No one, I am thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver, "except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it."<|quote|>"But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have."</|quote|>"That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps
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CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER "Was anyone hurt?" "No one, I am thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver, "except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it."<|quote|>"But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have."</|quote|>"That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER "Was anyone hurt?" "No one, I am thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver, "except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it."<|quote|>"But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have."</|quote|>"That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair
|
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"content": "CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER \"Was anyone hurt?\" \"No one, I am thankful to say,\" said Mrs Beaver, \"except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up.\" Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. \"Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it.\"<|quote|>\"But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have.\"</|quote|>\"That's true, my son.\" * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. \"What was your evening?\" \"Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet.\" \"I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair",
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John Beaver
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"That's true, my son."
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Mrs. Beaver
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to do as you have."<|quote|>"That's true, my son."</|quote|>* * * * *
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mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have."<|quote|>"That's true, my son."</|quote|>* * * * * John Beaver lived with his
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close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have."<|quote|>"That's true, my son."</|quote|>* * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture
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cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have."<|quote|>"That's true, my son."</|quote|>* * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone.
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CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER "Was anyone hurt?" "No one, I am thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver, "except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have."<|quote|>"That's true, my son."</|quote|>* * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed
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CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER "Was anyone hurt?" "No one, I am thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver, "except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have."<|quote|>"That's true, my son."</|quote|>* * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards
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CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER "Was anyone hurt?" "No one, I am thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver, "except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have."<|quote|>"That's true, my son."</|quote|>* * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are
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CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER "Was anyone hurt?" "No one, I am thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver, "except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have."<|quote|>"That's true, my son."</|quote|>* * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations
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A Handful Of Dust
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CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER "Was anyone hurt?" "No one, I am thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver, "except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have."<|quote|>"That's true, my son."</|quote|>* * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations
|
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"content": "CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER \"Was anyone hurt?\" \"No one, I am thankful to say,\" said Mrs Beaver, \"except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up.\" Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. \"Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it.\" \"But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have.\"<|quote|>\"That's true, my son.\"</|quote|>* * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. \"What was your evening?\" \"Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet.\" \"I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad.\" \"Poor mumsy.\" \"I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid.\" \"Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's.\" \"But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out.\" \"Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet.\" (Most of Beaver's invitations",
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Mrs. Beaver
|
* * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip.
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No speaker
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have." "That's true, my son."<|quote|>* * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip.</|quote|>"What was your evening?" "Audrey
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much to do as you have." "That's true, my son."<|quote|>* * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip.</|quote|>"What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and
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and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son."<|quote|>* * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip.</|quote|>"What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair
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rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son."<|quote|>* * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip.</|quote|>"What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I
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CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER "Was anyone hurt?" "No one, I am thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver, "except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son."<|quote|>* * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip.</|quote|>"What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he
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CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER "Was anyone hurt?" "No one, I am thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver, "except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son."<|quote|>* * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip.</|quote|>"What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've
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CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER "Was anyone hurt?" "No one, I am thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver, "except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son."<|quote|>* * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip.</|quote|>"What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day.
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CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER "Was anyone hurt?" "No one, I am thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver, "except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son."<|quote|>* * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip.</|quote|>"What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an
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A Handful Of Dust
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CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER "Was anyone hurt?" "No one, I am thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver, "except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son."<|quote|>* * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip.</|quote|>"What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an
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"content": "CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER \"Was anyone hurt?\" \"No one, I am thankful to say,\" said Mrs Beaver, \"except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up.\" Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. \"Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it.\" \"But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have.\" \"That's true, my son.\"<|quote|>* * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip.</|quote|>\"What was your evening?\" \"Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet.\" \"I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad.\" \"Poor mumsy.\" \"I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid.\" \"Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's.\" \"But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out.\" \"Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet.\" (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... \"John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now\" \"... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) \"Where are you going for the week-end?\" \"Hetton.\" \"Who's that? I forget.\" \"Tony Last.\" \"Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them.\" \"Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten.\" \"Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table.\" \"What's their dossier?\" \"I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an",
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No speaker
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"What was your evening?"
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Mrs. Beaver
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their morning interchange of gossip.<|quote|>"What was your evening?"</|quote|>"Audrey rang up at eight
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she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip.<|quote|>"What was your evening?"</|quote|>"Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner.
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at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip.<|quote|>"What was your evening?"</|quote|>"Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her
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no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip.<|quote|>"What was your evening?"</|quote|>"Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round
|
pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip.<|quote|>"What was your evening?"</|quote|>"Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for
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I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip.<|quote|>"What was your evening?"</|quote|>"Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but
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CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER "Was anyone hurt?" "No one, I am thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver, "except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip.<|quote|>"What was your evening?"</|quote|>"Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the
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stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip.<|quote|>"What was your evening?"</|quote|>"Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry
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A Handful Of Dust
|
stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip.<|quote|>"What was your evening?"</|quote|>"Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry
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"content": "stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it.\" \"But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have.\" \"That's true, my son.\" * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip.<|quote|>\"What was your evening?\"</|quote|>\"Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet.\" \"I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad.\" \"Poor mumsy.\" \"I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid.\" \"Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's.\" \"But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out.\" \"Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet.\" (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... \"John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now\" \"... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) \"Where are you going for the week-end?\" \"Hetton.\" \"Who's that? I forget.\" \"Tony Last.\" \"Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them.\" \"Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten.\" \"Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table.\" \"What's their dossier?\" \"I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry",
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Mrs. Beaver
|
"Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet."
|
John Beaver
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gossip. "What was your evening?"<|quote|>"Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet."</|quote|>"I know who you mean.
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value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?"<|quote|>"Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet."</|quote|>"I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for
|
at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?"<|quote|>"Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet."</|quote|>"I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are
|
able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?"<|quote|>"Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet."</|quote|>"I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be.
|
brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?"<|quote|>"Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet."</|quote|>"I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where
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my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?"<|quote|>"Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet."</|quote|>"I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter
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CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER "Was anyone hurt?" "No one, I am thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver, "except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?"<|quote|>"Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet."</|quote|>"I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as
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need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?"<|quote|>"Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet."</|quote|>"I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to
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A Handful Of Dust
|
need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?"<|quote|>"Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet."</|quote|>"I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to
|
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"content": "need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up.\" Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. \"Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it.\" \"But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have.\" \"That's true, my son.\" * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. \"What was your evening?\"<|quote|>\"Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet.\"</|quote|>\"I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad.\" \"Poor mumsy.\" \"I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid.\" \"Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's.\" \"But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out.\" \"Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet.\" (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... \"John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now\" \"... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) \"Where are you going for the week-end?\" \"Hetton.\" \"Who's that? I forget.\" \"Tony Last.\" \"Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them.\" \"Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten.\" \"Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table.\" \"What's their dossier?\" \"I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to",
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John Beaver
|
"I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad."
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Mrs. Beaver
|
a woman called de Trommet."<|quote|>"I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad."</|quote|>"Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at
|
to a party given by a woman called de Trommet."<|quote|>"I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad."</|quote|>"Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you
|
by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet."<|quote|>"I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad."</|quote|>"Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were
|
took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet."<|quote|>"I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad."</|quote|>"Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived
|
his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet."<|quote|>"I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad."</|quote|>"Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He
|
in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet."<|quote|>"I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad."</|quote|>"Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man
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CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER "Was anyone hurt?" "No one, I am thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver, "except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet."<|quote|>"I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad."</|quote|>"Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in
|
and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet."<|quote|>"I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad."</|quote|>"Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them
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A Handful Of Dust
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and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet."<|quote|>"I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad."</|quote|>"Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them
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"content": "and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. \"What was your evening?\" \"Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet.\"<|quote|>\"I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad.\"</|quote|>\"Poor mumsy.\" \"I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid.\" \"Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's.\" \"But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out.\" \"Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet.\" (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... \"John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now\" \"... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) \"Where are you going for the week-end?\" \"Hetton.\" \"Who's that? I forget.\" \"Tony Last.\" \"Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them.\" \"Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten.\" \"Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table.\" \"What's their dossier?\" \"I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more.\" \"Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone.\" \"It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking.\" Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. \"That's the way,\" she said, \"you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting.\" \"Thank you, Mrs Beaver.\" They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them",
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"content": "Mrs. Beaver",
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Mrs. Beaver
|
"Poor mumsy."
|
John Beaver
|
pounds ten to the bad."<|quote|>"Poor mumsy."</|quote|>"I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's.
|
evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad."<|quote|>"Poor mumsy."</|quote|>"I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I
|
a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad."<|quote|>"Poor mumsy."</|quote|>"I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to
|
drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad."<|quote|>"Poor mumsy."</|quote|>"I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie.
|
was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad."<|quote|>"Poor mumsy."</|quote|>"I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have
|
pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad."<|quote|>"Poor mumsy."</|quote|>"I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash
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CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER "Was anyone hurt?" "No one, I am thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver, "except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad."<|quote|>"Poor mumsy."</|quote|>"I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst
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_everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad."<|quote|>"Poor mumsy."</|quote|>"I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop.
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A Handful Of Dust
|
_everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad."<|quote|>"Poor mumsy."</|quote|>"I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop.
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"content": "_everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up.\" Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. \"Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it.\" \"But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have.\" \"That's true, my son.\" * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. \"What was your evening?\" \"Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet.\" \"I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad.\"<|quote|>\"Poor mumsy.\"</|quote|>\"I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid.\" \"Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's.\" \"But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out.\" \"Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet.\" (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... \"John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now\" \"... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) \"Where are you going for the week-end?\" \"Hetton.\" \"Who's that? I forget.\" \"Tony Last.\" \"Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them.\" \"Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten.\" \"Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table.\" \"What's their dossier?\" \"I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more.\" \"Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone.\" \"It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking.\" Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop.",
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John Beaver
|
"I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid."
|
Mrs. Beaver
|
to the bad." "Poor mumsy."<|quote|>"I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid."</|quote|>"Nothing so far. I can
|
came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy."<|quote|>"I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid."</|quote|>"Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's."
|
given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy."<|quote|>"I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid."</|quote|>"Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came
|
to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy."<|quote|>"I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid."</|quote|>"Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in
|
years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy."<|quote|>"I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid."</|quote|>"Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives
|
any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy."<|quote|>"I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid."</|quote|>"Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to
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CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER "Was anyone hurt?" "No one, I am thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver, "except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy."<|quote|>"I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid."</|quote|>"Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place
|
were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy."<|quote|>"I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid."</|quote|>"Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy."<|quote|>"I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid."</|quote|>"Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so
|
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"content": "were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up.\" Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. \"Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it.\" \"But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have.\" \"That's true, my son.\" * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. \"What was your evening?\" \"Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet.\" \"I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad.\" \"Poor mumsy.\"<|quote|>\"I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid.\"</|quote|>\"Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's.\" \"But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out.\" \"Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet.\" (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... \"John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now\" \"... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) \"Where are you going for the week-end?\" \"Hetton.\" \"Who's that? I forget.\" \"Tony Last.\" \"Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them.\" \"Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten.\" \"Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table.\" \"What's their dossier?\" \"I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more.\" \"Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone.\" \"It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking.\" Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. \"That's the way,\" she said, \"you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting.\" \"Thank you, Mrs Beaver.\" They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, \"Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you.\" The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... \"Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so",
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Mrs. Beaver
|
"Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's."
|
John Beaver
|
order anything here, I'm afraid."<|quote|>"Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's."</|quote|>"But that's so expensive. I'm
|
are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid."<|quote|>"Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's."</|quote|>"But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers
|
for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid."<|quote|>"Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's."</|quote|>"But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when
|
morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid."<|quote|>"Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's."</|quote|>"But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi
|
advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid."<|quote|>"Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's."</|quote|>"But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just
|
interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid."<|quote|>"Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's."</|quote|>"But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It
|
CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER "Was anyone hurt?" "No one, I am thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver, "except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid."<|quote|>"Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's."</|quote|>"But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly
|
behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid."<|quote|>"Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's."</|quote|>"But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art.
|
A Handful Of Dust
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behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid."<|quote|>"Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's."</|quote|>"But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art.
|
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"messages": [
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"content": "You are helpful",
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"content": "behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. \"What was your evening?\" \"Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet.\" \"I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad.\" \"Poor mumsy.\" \"I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid.\"<|quote|>\"Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's.\"</|quote|>\"But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out.\" \"Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet.\" (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... \"John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now\" \"... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) \"Where are you going for the week-end?\" \"Hetton.\" \"Who's that? I forget.\" \"Tony Last.\" \"Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them.\" \"Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten.\" \"Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table.\" \"What's their dossier?\" \"I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more.\" \"Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone.\" \"It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking.\" Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. \"That's the way,\" she said, \"you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting.\" \"Thank you, Mrs Beaver.\" They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art.",
"role": "user"
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"content": "John Beaver",
"role": "assistant"
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|
John Beaver
|
"But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out."
|
Mrs. Beaver
|
always go round to Bratt's."<|quote|>"But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out."</|quote|>"Well, I still may be.
|
"Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's."<|quote|>"But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out."</|quote|>"Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most
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I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's."<|quote|>"But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out."</|quote|>"Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you
|
up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's."<|quote|>"But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out."</|quote|>"Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of
|
find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's."<|quote|>"But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out."</|quote|>"Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda
|
Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's."<|quote|>"But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out."</|quote|>"Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with
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CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER "Was anyone hurt?" "No one, I am thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver, "except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's."<|quote|>"But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out."</|quote|>"Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in
|
his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's."<|quote|>"But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out."</|quote|>"Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's."<|quote|>"But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out."</|quote|>"Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to
|
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"content": "You are helpful",
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"content": "his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. \"What was your evening?\" \"Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet.\" \"I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad.\" \"Poor mumsy.\" \"I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid.\" \"Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's.\"<|quote|>\"But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out.\"</|quote|>\"Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet.\" (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... \"John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now\" \"... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) \"Where are you going for the week-end?\" \"Hetton.\" \"Who's that? I forget.\" \"Tony Last.\" \"Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them.\" \"Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten.\" \"Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table.\" \"What's their dossier?\" \"I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more.\" \"Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone.\" \"It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking.\" Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. \"That's the way,\" she said, \"you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting.\" \"Thank you, Mrs Beaver.\" They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, \"Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to",
"role": "user"
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"content": "Mrs. Beaver",
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Mrs. Beaver
|
"Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet."
|
John Beaver
|
were certain to be out."<|quote|>"Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet."</|quote|>(Most of Beaver's invitations came
|
something in. I thought you were certain to be out."<|quote|>"Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet."</|quote|>(Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last
|
at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out."<|quote|>"Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet."</|quote|>(Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be
|
a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out."<|quote|>"Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet."</|quote|>(Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for
|
it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out."<|quote|>"Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet."</|quote|>(Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look.
|
dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out."<|quote|>"Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet."</|quote|>(Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the
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CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER "Was anyone hurt?" "No one, I am thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver, "except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out."<|quote|>"Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet."</|quote|>(Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but
|
of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out."<|quote|>"Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet."</|quote|>(Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out."<|quote|>"Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet."</|quote|>(Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long
|
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"content": "of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. \"What was your evening?\" \"Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet.\" \"I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad.\" \"Poor mumsy.\" \"I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid.\" \"Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's.\" \"But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out.\"<|quote|>\"Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet.\"</|quote|>(Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... \"John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now\" \"... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) \"Where are you going for the week-end?\" \"Hetton.\" \"Who's that? I forget.\" \"Tony Last.\" \"Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them.\" \"Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten.\" \"Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table.\" \"What's their dossier?\" \"I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more.\" \"Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone.\" \"It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking.\" Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. \"That's the way,\" she said, \"you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting.\" \"Thank you, Mrs Beaver.\" They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long",
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John Beaver
|
(Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray...
|
No speaker
|
be. It isn't twelve yet."<|quote|>(Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray...</|quote|>"John, darling, there's been a
|
out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet."<|quote|>(Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray...</|quote|>"John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived
|
order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet."<|quote|>(Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray...</|quote|>"John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few
|
mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet."<|quote|>(Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray...</|quote|>"John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't
|
in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet."<|quote|>(Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray...</|quote|>"John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's
|
dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet."<|quote|>(Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray...</|quote|>"John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs
|
CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER "Was anyone hurt?" "No one, I am thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver, "except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet."<|quote|>(Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray...</|quote|>"John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from
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and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet."<|quote|>(Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray...</|quote|>"John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better
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A Handful Of Dust
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and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet."<|quote|>(Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray...</|quote|>"John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better
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"content": "and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. \"What was your evening?\" \"Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet.\" \"I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad.\" \"Poor mumsy.\" \"I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid.\" \"Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's.\" \"But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out.\" \"Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet.\"<|quote|>(Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray...</|quote|>\"John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now\" \"... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) \"Where are you going for the week-end?\" \"Hetton.\" \"Who's that? I forget.\" \"Tony Last.\" \"Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them.\" \"Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten.\" \"Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table.\" \"What's their dossier?\" \"I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more.\" \"Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone.\" \"It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking.\" Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. \"That's the way,\" she said, \"you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting.\" \"Thank you, Mrs Beaver.\" They had better",
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No speaker
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"John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now"
|
Mrs. Beaver
|
solitary meal from a tray...<|quote|>"John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now"</|quote|>"... Then he would go
|
already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray...<|quote|>"John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now"</|quote|>"... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and
|
able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray...<|quote|>"John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now"</|quote|>"... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I
|
evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray...<|quote|>"John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now"</|quote|>"... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them
|
customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray...<|quote|>"John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now"</|quote|>"... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up
|
for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray...<|quote|>"John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now"</|quote|>"... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic
|
CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER "Was anyone hurt?" "No one, I am thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver, "except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray...<|quote|>"John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now"</|quote|>"... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn
|
elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray...<|quote|>"John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now"</|quote|>"... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray...<|quote|>"John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now"</|quote|>"... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party
|
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"messages": [
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"content": "You are helpful",
"role": "system"
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"content": "elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. \"What was your evening?\" \"Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet.\" \"I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad.\" \"Poor mumsy.\" \"I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid.\" \"Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's.\" \"But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out.\" \"Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet.\" (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray...<|quote|>\"John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now\"</|quote|>\"... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) \"Where are you going for the week-end?\" \"Hetton.\" \"Who's that? I forget.\" \"Tony Last.\" \"Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them.\" \"Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten.\" \"Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table.\" \"What's their dossier?\" \"I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more.\" \"Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone.\" \"It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking.\" Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. \"That's the way,\" she said, \"you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting.\" \"Thank you, Mrs Beaver.\" They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, \"Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you.\" The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party",
"role": "user"
},
{
"content": "Mrs. Beaver",
"role": "assistant"
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}
|
Mrs. Beaver
|
"... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.)
|
No speaker
|
because we're going in now"<|quote|>"... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.)</|quote|>"Where are you going for
|
me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now"<|quote|>"... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.)</|quote|>"Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that?
|
him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now"<|quote|>"... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.)</|quote|>"Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind
|
so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now"<|quote|>"... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.)</|quote|>"Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's
|
interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now"<|quote|>"... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.)</|quote|>"Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a
|
jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now"<|quote|>"... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.)</|quote|>"Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like
|
CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER "Was anyone hurt?" "No one, I am thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver, "except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now"<|quote|>"... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.)</|quote|>"Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these
|
were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now"<|quote|>"... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.)</|quote|>"Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now"<|quote|>"... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.)</|quote|>"Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were
|
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"content": "were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. \"What was your evening?\" \"Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet.\" \"I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad.\" \"Poor mumsy.\" \"I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid.\" \"Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's.\" \"But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out.\" \"Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet.\" (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... \"John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now\"<|quote|>\"... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.)</|quote|>\"Where are you going for the week-end?\" \"Hetton.\" \"Who's that? I forget.\" \"Tony Last.\" \"Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them.\" \"Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten.\" \"Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table.\" \"What's their dossier?\" \"I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more.\" \"Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone.\" \"It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking.\" Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were",
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No speaker
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"Where are you going for the week-end?"
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Mrs. Beaver
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of hers in this way.)<|quote|>"Where are you going for the week-end?"</|quote|>"Hetton." "Who's that? I forget."
|
he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.)<|quote|>"Where are you going for the week-end?"</|quote|>"Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course.
|
help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.)<|quote|>"Where are you going for the week-end?"</|quote|>"Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing
|
be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.)<|quote|>"Where are you going for the week-end?"</|quote|>"Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used
|
Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.)<|quote|>"Where are you going for the week-end?"</|quote|>"Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are
|
thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.)<|quote|>"Where are you going for the week-end?"</|quote|>"Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence
|
CHAPTER I DU C?T? DE CHEZ BEAVER "Was anyone hurt?" "No one, I am thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver, "except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.)<|quote|>"Where are you going for the week-end?"</|quote|>"Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they
|
and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.)<|quote|>"Where are you going for the week-end?"</|quote|>"Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.)<|quote|>"Where are you going for the week-end?"</|quote|>"Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know
|
{
"messages": [
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"content": "You are helpful",
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"content": "and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet.\" \"I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad.\" \"Poor mumsy.\" \"I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid.\" \"Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's.\" \"But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out.\" \"Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet.\" (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... \"John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now\" \"... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.)<|quote|>\"Where are you going for the week-end?\"</|quote|>\"Hetton.\" \"Who's that? I forget.\" \"Tony Last.\" \"Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them.\" \"Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten.\" \"Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table.\" \"What's their dossier?\" \"I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more.\" \"Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone.\" \"It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking.\" Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. \"That's the way,\" she said, \"you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting.\" \"Thank you, Mrs Beaver.\" They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, \"Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you.\" The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... \"Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament.\" \"I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies.\" \"Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know",
"role": "user"
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"content": "Mrs. Beaver",
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}
|
Mrs. Beaver
|
"Hetton."
|
John Beaver
|
you going for the week-end?"<|quote|>"Hetton."</|quote|>"Who's that? I forget." "Tony
|
in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?"<|quote|>"Hetton."</|quote|>"Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's
|
we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?"<|quote|>"Hetton."</|quote|>"Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up.
|
Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?"<|quote|>"Hetton."</|quote|>"Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to
|
She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?"<|quote|>"Hetton."</|quote|>"Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking."
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(in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?"<|quote|>"Hetton."</|quote|>"Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was
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CHEZ BEAVER "Was anyone hurt?" "No one, I am thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver, "except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?"<|quote|>"Hetton."</|quote|>"Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked
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From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?"<|quote|>"Hetton."</|quote|>"Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil
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A Handful Of Dust
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From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?"<|quote|>"Hetton."</|quote|>"Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil
|
{
"messages": [
{
"content": "You are helpful",
"role": "system"
},
{
"content": "From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. \"What was your evening?\" \"Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet.\" \"I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad.\" \"Poor mumsy.\" \"I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid.\" \"Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's.\" \"But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out.\" \"Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet.\" (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... \"John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now\" \"... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) \"Where are you going for the week-end?\"<|quote|>\"Hetton.\"</|quote|>\"Who's that? I forget.\" \"Tony Last.\" \"Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them.\" \"Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten.\" \"Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table.\" \"What's their dossier?\" \"I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more.\" \"Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone.\" \"It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking.\" Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil",
"role": "user"
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"content": "John Beaver",
"role": "assistant"
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|
John Beaver
|
"Who's that? I forget."
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Mrs. Beaver
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going for the week-end?" "Hetton."<|quote|>"Who's that? I forget."</|quote|>"Tony Last." "Yes, of course.
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this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton."<|quote|>"Who's that? I forget."</|quote|>"Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a
|
going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton."<|quote|>"Who's that? I forget."</|quote|>"Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less
|
invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton."<|quote|>"Who's that? I forget."</|quote|>"Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her
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hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton."<|quote|>"Who's that? I forget."</|quote|>"Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a
|
spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton."<|quote|>"Who's that? I forget."</|quote|>"Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation.
|
BEAVER "Was anyone hurt?" "No one, I am thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver, "except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton."<|quote|>"Who's that? I forget."</|quote|>"Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than
|
pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton."<|quote|>"Who's that? I forget."</|quote|>"Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton."<|quote|>"Who's that? I forget."</|quote|>"Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He
|
{
"messages": [
{
"content": "You are helpful",
"role": "system"
},
{
"content": "pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. \"What was your evening?\" \"Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet.\" \"I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad.\" \"Poor mumsy.\" \"I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid.\" \"Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's.\" \"But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out.\" \"Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet.\" (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... \"John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now\" \"... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) \"Where are you going for the week-end?\" \"Hetton.\"<|quote|>\"Who's that? I forget.\"</|quote|>\"Tony Last.\" \"Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them.\" \"Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten.\" \"Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table.\" \"What's their dossier?\" \"I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more.\" \"Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone.\" \"It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking.\" Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. \"That's the way,\" she said, \"you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting.\" \"Thank you, Mrs Beaver.\" They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, \"Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you.\" The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... \"Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament.\" \"I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies.\" \"Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?\" \"He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there.\" \"Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye.\" After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He",
"role": "user"
},
{
"content": "Mrs. Beaver",
"role": "assistant"
}
]
}
|
Mrs. Beaver
|
"Tony Last."
|
John Beaver
|
"Hetton." "Who's that? I forget."<|quote|>"Tony Last."</|quote|>"Yes, of course. She's lovely,
|
you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget."<|quote|>"Tony Last."</|quote|>"Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I
|
Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget."<|quote|>"Tony Last."</|quote|>"Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to
|
at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget."<|quote|>"Tony Last."</|quote|>"Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she
|
toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget."<|quote|>"Tony Last."</|quote|>"Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and
|
she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget."<|quote|>"Tony Last."</|quote|>"Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping
|
"No one, I am thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver, "except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget."<|quote|>"Tony Last."</|quote|>"Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did
|
interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget."<|quote|>"Tony Last."</|quote|>"Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget."<|quote|>"Tony Last."</|quote|>"Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something
|
{
"messages": [
{
"content": "You are helpful",
"role": "system"
},
{
"content": "interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. \"What was your evening?\" \"Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet.\" \"I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad.\" \"Poor mumsy.\" \"I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid.\" \"Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's.\" \"But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out.\" \"Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet.\" (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... \"John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now\" \"... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) \"Where are you going for the week-end?\" \"Hetton.\" \"Who's that? I forget.\"<|quote|>\"Tony Last.\"</|quote|>\"Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them.\" \"Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten.\" \"Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table.\" \"What's their dossier?\" \"I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more.\" \"Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone.\" \"It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking.\" Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. \"That's the way,\" she said, \"you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something",
"role": "user"
},
{
"content": "John Beaver",
"role": "assistant"
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}
|
John Beaver
|
"Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them."
|
Mrs. Beaver
|
that? I forget." "Tony Last."<|quote|>"Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them."</|quote|>"Well, I don't really. Tony
|
for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last."<|quote|>"Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them."</|quote|>"Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the
|
would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last."<|quote|>"Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them."</|quote|>"Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table."
|
last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last."<|quote|>"Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them."</|quote|>"Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on
|
covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last."<|quote|>"Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them."</|quote|>"Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty
|
lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last."<|quote|>"Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them."</|quote|>"Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the
|
I am thankful to say," said Mrs Beaver, "except two housemaids who lost their heads and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last."<|quote|>"Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them."</|quote|>"Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But
|
near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last."<|quote|>"Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them."</|quote|>"Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last."<|quote|>"Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them."</|quote|>"Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so
|
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"content": "You are helpful",
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"content": "near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. \"What was your evening?\" \"Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet.\" \"I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad.\" \"Poor mumsy.\" \"I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid.\" \"Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's.\" \"But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out.\" \"Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet.\" (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... \"John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now\" \"... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) \"Where are you going for the week-end?\" \"Hetton.\" \"Who's that? I forget.\" \"Tony Last.\"<|quote|>\"Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them.\"</|quote|>\"Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten.\" \"Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table.\" \"What's their dossier?\" \"I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more.\" \"Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone.\" \"It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking.\" Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. \"That's the way,\" she said, \"you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting.\" \"Thank you, Mrs Beaver.\" They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, \"Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you.\" The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... \"Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so",
"role": "user"
},
{
"content": "Mrs. Beaver",
"role": "assistant"
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|
Mrs. Beaver
|
"Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten."
|
John Beaver
|
didn't know you knew them."<|quote|>"Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten."</|quote|>"Send a telegram and remind
|
he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them."<|quote|>"Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten."</|quote|>"Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better
|
of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them."<|quote|>"Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten."</|quote|>"Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was
|
from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them."<|quote|>"Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten."</|quote|>"Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored.
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card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them."<|quote|>"Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten."</|quote|>"Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for
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varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them."<|quote|>"Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten."</|quote|>"Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver,
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and jumped through a glass roof into the paved court. They were in no danger. The fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them."<|quote|>"Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten."</|quote|>"Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing
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important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them."<|quote|>"Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten."</|quote|>"Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and
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A Handful Of Dust
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important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them."<|quote|>"Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten."</|quote|>"Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and
|
{
"messages": [
{
"content": "You are helpful",
"role": "system"
},
{
"content": "important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. \"What was your evening?\" \"Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet.\" \"I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad.\" \"Poor mumsy.\" \"I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid.\" \"Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's.\" \"But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out.\" \"Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet.\" (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... \"John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now\" \"... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) \"Where are you going for the week-end?\" \"Hetton.\" \"Who's that? I forget.\" \"Tony Last.\" \"Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them.\"<|quote|>\"Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten.\"</|quote|>\"Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table.\" \"What's their dossier?\" \"I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more.\" \"Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone.\" \"It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking.\" Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. \"That's the way,\" she said, \"you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting.\" \"Thank you, Mrs Beaver.\" They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, \"Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you.\" The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... \"Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament.\" \"I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies.\" \"Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?\" \"He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there.\" \"Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye.\" After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and",
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John Beaver
|
"Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table."
|
Mrs. Beaver
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night. He may have forgotten."<|quote|>"Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table."</|quote|>"What's their dossier?" "I used
|
me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten."<|quote|>"Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table."</|quote|>"What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a
|
of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten."<|quote|>"Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table."</|quote|>"What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on
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you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten."<|quote|>"Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table."</|quote|>"What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one
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lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten."<|quote|>"Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table."</|quote|>"What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little
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old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten."<|quote|>"Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table."</|quote|>"What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with
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fire never reached the bedrooms, I am afraid. Still, they are bound to need doing up, everything black with smoke and drenched in water and luckily they had that old-fashioned sort of extinguisher that ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten."<|quote|>"Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table."</|quote|>"What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished
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dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten."<|quote|>"Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table."</|quote|>"What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance
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A Handful Of Dust
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dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten."<|quote|>"Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table."</|quote|>"What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance
|
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"content": "dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. \"What was your evening?\" \"Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet.\" \"I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad.\" \"Poor mumsy.\" \"I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid.\" \"Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's.\" \"But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out.\" \"Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet.\" (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... \"John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now\" \"... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) \"Where are you going for the week-end?\" \"Hetton.\" \"Who's that? I forget.\" \"Tony Last.\" \"Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them.\" \"Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten.\"<|quote|>\"Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table.\"</|quote|>\"What's their dossier?\" \"I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more.\" \"Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone.\" \"It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking.\" Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. \"That's the way,\" she said, \"you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting.\" \"Thank you, Mrs Beaver.\" They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, \"Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you.\" The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... \"Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament.\" \"I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies.\" \"Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance",
"role": "user"
},
{
"content": "Mrs. Beaver",
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}
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Mrs. Beaver
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"What's their dossier?"
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John Beaver
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owe me for a table."<|quote|>"What's their dossier?"</|quote|>"I used to see her
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just before you start. They owe me for a table."<|quote|>"What's their dossier?"</|quote|>"I used to see her quite a lot before she
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"Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table."<|quote|>"What's their dossier?"</|quote|>"I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's
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of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table."<|quote|>"What's their dossier?"</|quote|>"I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least,
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Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table."<|quote|>"What's their dossier?"</|quote|>"I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and
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up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table."<|quote|>"What's their dossier?"</|quote|>"I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache.
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ruins _everything_. One really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table."<|quote|>"What's their dossier?"</|quote|>"I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at
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dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table."<|quote|>"What's their dossier?"</|quote|>"I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much.
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A Handful Of Dust
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dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table."<|quote|>"What's their dossier?"</|quote|>"I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much.
|
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"messages": [
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"content": "You are helpful",
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"content": "dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. \"What was your evening?\" \"Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet.\" \"I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad.\" \"Poor mumsy.\" \"I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid.\" \"Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's.\" \"But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out.\" \"Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet.\" (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... \"John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now\" \"... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) \"Where are you going for the week-end?\" \"Hetton.\" \"Who's that? I forget.\" \"Tony Last.\" \"Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them.\" \"Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten.\" \"Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table.\"<|quote|>\"What's their dossier?\"</|quote|>\"I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more.\" \"Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone.\" \"It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking.\" Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. \"That's the way,\" she said, \"you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting.\" \"Thank you, Mrs Beaver.\" They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, \"Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you.\" The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... \"Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament.\" \"I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies.\" \"Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?\" \"He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there.\" \"Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much.",
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"content": "John Beaver",
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|
John Beaver
|
"I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more."
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Mrs. Beaver
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a table." "What's their dossier?"<|quote|>"I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more."</|quote|>"Mumsy, you are wonderful. I
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start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?"<|quote|>"I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more."</|quote|>"Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone."
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really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?"<|quote|>"I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more."</|quote|>"Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned
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recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?"<|quote|>"I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more."</|quote|>"Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls
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able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?"<|quote|>"I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more."</|quote|>"Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and
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sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?"<|quote|>"I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more."</|quote|>"Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his
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really cannot complain. The chief rooms were _completely_ gutted and everything was insured. Sylvia Newport knows the people. I must get on to them this morning before that ghoul Mrs Shutter snaps them up." Mrs Beaver stood with her back to the fire, eating her morning yoghourt. She held the carton close under her chin and gobbled with a spoon. "Heavens, how nasty this stuff is. I wish you'd take to it, John. You're looking so tired lately. I don't know how I should get through my day without it." "But, mumsy, I haven't as much to do as you have." "That's true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?"<|quote|>"I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more."</|quote|>"Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony
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why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?"<|quote|>"I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more."</|quote|>"Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?"<|quote|>"I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more."</|quote|>"Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of
|
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"messages": [
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"content": "You are helpful",
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"content": "why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. \"What was your evening?\" \"Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet.\" \"I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad.\" \"Poor mumsy.\" \"I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid.\" \"Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's.\" \"But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out.\" \"Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet.\" (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... \"John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now\" \"... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) \"Where are you going for the week-end?\" \"Hetton.\" \"Who's that? I forget.\" \"Tony Last.\" \"Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them.\" \"Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten.\" \"Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table.\" \"What's their dossier?\"<|quote|>\"I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more.\"</|quote|>\"Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone.\" \"It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking.\" Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. \"That's the way,\" she said, \"you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting.\" \"Thank you, Mrs Beaver.\" They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, \"Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you.\" The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... \"Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament.\" \"I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies.\" \"Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?\" \"He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there.\" \"Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye.\" After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of",
"role": "user"
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{
"content": "Mrs. Beaver",
"role": "assistant"
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|
Mrs. Beaver
|
"Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone."
|
John Beaver
|
child at least, perhaps more."<|quote|>"Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone."</|quote|>"It's a great help. All
|
quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more."<|quote|>"Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone."</|quote|>"It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention
|
I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more."<|quote|>"Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone."</|quote|>"It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash
|
to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more."<|quote|>"Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone."</|quote|>"It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she
|
with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more."<|quote|>"Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone."</|quote|>"It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the
|
rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more."<|quote|>"Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone."</|quote|>"It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to
|
true, my son." * * * * * John Beaver lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more."<|quote|>"Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone."</|quote|>"It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and
|
be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more."<|quote|>"Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone."</|quote|>"It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder
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A Handful Of Dust
|
be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more."<|quote|>"Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone."</|quote|>"It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder
|
{
"messages": [
{
"content": "You are helpful",
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"content": "be quick, because we're going in now\" \"... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) \"Where are you going for the week-end?\" \"Hetton.\" \"Who's that? I forget.\" \"Tony Last.\" \"Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them.\" \"Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten.\" \"Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table.\" \"What's their dossier?\" \"I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more.\"<|quote|>\"Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone.\"</|quote|>\"It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking.\" Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. \"That's the way,\" she said, \"you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting.\" \"Thank you, Mrs Beaver.\" They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, \"Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you.\" The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... \"Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament.\" \"I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies.\" \"Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?\" \"He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there.\" \"Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye.\" After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder",
"role": "user"
},
{
"content": "John Beaver",
"role": "assistant"
}
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}
|
John Beaver
|
"It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking."
|
Mrs. Beaver
|
believe you know about everyone."<|quote|>"It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking."</|quote|>Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette
|
"Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone."<|quote|>"It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking."</|quote|>Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to
|
bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone."<|quote|>"It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking."</|quote|>Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to
|
was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone."<|quote|>"It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking."</|quote|>Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a
|
party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone."<|quote|>"It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking."</|quote|>Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was
|
given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone."<|quote|>"It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking."</|quote|>Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street.
|
lived with his mother at the house in Sussex Gardens where they had moved after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone."<|quote|>"It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking."</|quote|>Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge
|
card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone."<|quote|>"It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking."</|quote|>Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after
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A Handful Of Dust
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card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone."<|quote|>"It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking."</|quote|>Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after
|
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"content": "card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad.\" \"Poor mumsy.\" \"I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid.\" \"Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's.\" \"But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out.\" \"Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet.\" (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... \"John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now\" \"... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) \"Where are you going for the week-end?\" \"Hetton.\" \"Who's that? I forget.\" \"Tony Last.\" \"Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them.\" \"Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten.\" \"Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table.\" \"What's their dossier?\" \"I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more.\" \"Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone.\"<|quote|>\"It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking.\"</|quote|>Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. \"That's the way,\" she said, \"you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting.\" \"Thank you, Mrs Beaver.\" They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, \"Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you.\" The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... \"Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament.\" \"I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies.\" \"Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?\" \"He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there.\" \"Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye.\" After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after",
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Mrs. Beaver
|
Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man.
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No speaker
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attention while people are talking."<|quote|>Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man.</|quote|>"That's the way," she said,
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All a matter of paying attention while people are talking."<|quote|>Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man.</|quote|>"That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely,
|
in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking."<|quote|>Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man.</|quote|>"That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them
|
be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking."<|quote|>Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man.</|quote|>"That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full
|
"Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking."<|quote|>Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man.</|quote|>"That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him,
|
hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking."<|quote|>Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man.</|quote|>"That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and
|
after his father's death. There was little in it to suggest the austerely elegant interiors which Mrs Beaver planned for her customers. It was crowded with the unsaleable furniture of two larger houses, without pretension to any period, least of all to the present. The best pieces and those which had sentimental interest for Mrs Beaver were in the L-shaped drawing-room upstairs. Beaver had a dark little sitting-room (on the ground floor, behind the dining-room) and his own telephone. The elderly parlourmaid looked after his clothes. She also dusted, polished and maintained in symmetrical order on his dressing table and on the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking."<|quote|>Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man.</|quote|>"That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by
|
shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking."<|quote|>Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man.</|quote|>"That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking."<|quote|>Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man.</|quote|>"That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see
|
{
"messages": [
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"content": "You are helpful",
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"content": "shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. \"What was your evening?\" \"Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet.\" \"I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad.\" \"Poor mumsy.\" \"I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid.\" \"Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's.\" \"But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out.\" \"Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet.\" (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... \"John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now\" \"... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) \"Where are you going for the week-end?\" \"Hetton.\" \"Who's that? I forget.\" \"Tony Last.\" \"Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them.\" \"Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten.\" \"Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table.\" \"What's their dossier?\" \"I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more.\" \"Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone.\" \"It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking.\"<|quote|>Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man.</|quote|>\"That's the way,\" she said, \"you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting.\" \"Thank you, Mrs Beaver.\" They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, \"Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you.\" The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... \"Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament.\" \"I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies.\" \"Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?\" \"He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there.\" \"Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see",
"role": "user"
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"content": "No speaker",
"role": "assistant"
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No speaker
|
"That's the way,"
|
Mrs. Beaver
|
the crates like a man.<|quote|>"That's the way,"</|quote|>she said, "you are doing
|
shorter one who was handling the crates like a man.<|quote|>"That's the way,"</|quote|>she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon
|
to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man.<|quote|>"That's the way,"</|quote|>she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to
|
Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man.<|quote|>"That's the way,"</|quote|>she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation.
|
mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man.<|quote|>"That's the way,"</|quote|>she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's
|
came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man.<|quote|>"That's the way,"</|quote|>she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their
|
the top of his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man.<|quote|>"That's the way,"</|quote|>she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but
|
and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man.<|quote|>"That's the way,"</|quote|>she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man.<|quote|>"That's the way,"</|quote|>she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he
|
{
"messages": [
{
"content": "You are helpful",
"role": "system"
},
{
"content": "and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now\" \"... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) \"Where are you going for the week-end?\" \"Hetton.\" \"Who's that? I forget.\" \"Tony Last.\" \"Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them.\" \"Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten.\" \"Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table.\" \"What's their dossier?\" \"I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more.\" \"Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone.\" \"It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking.\" Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man.<|quote|>\"That's the way,\"</|quote|>she said, \"you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting.\" \"Thank you, Mrs Beaver.\" They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, \"Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you.\" The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... \"Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament.\" \"I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies.\" \"Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?\" \"He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there.\" \"Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye.\" After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, \"Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?\" or, more simply, \"Well, old boy?\" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. \"Well, old boy,\" he",
"role": "user"
},
{
"content": "Mrs. Beaver",
"role": "assistant"
}
]
}
|
Mrs. Beaver
|
she said,
|
No speaker
|
a man. "That's the way,"<|quote|>she said,</|quote|>"you are doing very nicely,
|
was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way,"<|quote|>she said,</|quote|>"you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you
|
where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way,"<|quote|>she said,</|quote|>"you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs.
|
cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way,"<|quote|>she said,</|quote|>"you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping
|
when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way,"<|quote|>she said,</|quote|>"you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the
|
at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way,"<|quote|>she said,</|quote|>"you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now
|
his chest of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way,"<|quote|>she said,</|quote|>"you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more
|
we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way,"<|quote|>she said,</|quote|>"you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo,
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A Handful Of Dust
|
we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way,"<|quote|>she said,</|quote|>"you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo,
|
{
"messages": [
{
"content": "You are helpful",
"role": "system"
},
{
"content": "we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet.\" \"I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad.\" \"Poor mumsy.\" \"I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid.\" \"Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's.\" \"But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out.\" \"Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet.\" (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... \"John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now\" \"... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) \"Where are you going for the week-end?\" \"Hetton.\" \"Who's that? I forget.\" \"Tony Last.\" \"Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them.\" \"Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten.\" \"Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table.\" \"What's their dossier?\" \"I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more.\" \"Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone.\" \"It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking.\" Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. \"That's the way,\"<|quote|>she said,</|quote|>\"you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting.\" \"Thank you, Mrs Beaver.\" They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, \"Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you.\" The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... \"Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament.\" \"I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies.\" \"Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?\" \"He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there.\" \"Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye.\" After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, \"Hullo,",
"role": "user"
},
{
"content": "No speaker",
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No speaker
|
"you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting."
|
Mrs. Beaver
|
"That's the way," she said,<|quote|>"you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting."</|quote|>"Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They
|
the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said,<|quote|>"you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting."</|quote|>"Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the
|
dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said,<|quote|>"you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting."</|quote|>"Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his
|
then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said,<|quote|>"you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting."</|quote|>"Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the
|
was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said,<|quote|>"you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting."</|quote|>"Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to
|
last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said,<|quote|>"you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting."</|quote|>"Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs
|
of drawers the collection of sombre and bulky objects that had stood in his father's dressing-room; indestructible presents for his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said,<|quote|>"you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting."</|quote|>"Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to
|
before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said,<|quote|>"you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting."</|quote|>"Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No,
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said,<|quote|>"you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting."</|quote|>"Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No,
|
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},
{
"content": "before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more.\" \"Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone.\" \"It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking.\" Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. \"That's the way,\" she said,<|quote|>\"you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting.\"</|quote|>\"Thank you, Mrs Beaver.\" They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, \"Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you.\" The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... \"Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament.\" \"I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies.\" \"Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?\" \"He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there.\" \"Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye.\" After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, \"Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?\" or, more simply, \"Well, old boy?\" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. \"Well, old boy,\" he said. \"What are you drinking?\" \"Nothing so far.\" Beaver looked at his watch. \"But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale.\" Jock called to the barman and then said: \"Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?\" \"She's called Mrs Tipping.\" \"I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her.\" \"Are you going?\" \"No,",
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"content": "Mrs. Beaver",
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}
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Mrs. Beaver
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They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said,
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No speaker
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interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver."<|quote|>They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said,</|quote|>"Mr Beaver? Will you please
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you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver."<|quote|>They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said,</|quote|>"Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs
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walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver."<|quote|>They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said,</|quote|>"Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful
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telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver."<|quote|>They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said,</|quote|>"Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in
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prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver."<|quote|>They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said,</|quote|>"Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and
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darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver."<|quote|>They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said,</|quote|>"Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old
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his wedding and twenty-first birthday, ivory, brass bound, covered in pigskin, crested and gold mounted, suggestive of expensive Edwardian masculinity--racing flasks and hunting flasks, cigar cases, tobacco jars, jockeys, elaborate meerschaum pipes, buttonhooks and hat brushes. There were four servants, all female and all, save one, elderly. When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver."<|quote|>They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said,</|quote|>"Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know
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evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver."<|quote|>They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said,</|quote|>"Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from
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A Handful Of Dust
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evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver."<|quote|>They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said,</|quote|>"Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from
|
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"content": "evening?\" \"Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet.\" \"I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad.\" \"Poor mumsy.\" \"I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid.\" \"Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's.\" \"But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out.\" \"Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet.\" (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... \"John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now\" \"... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) \"Where are you going for the week-end?\" \"Hetton.\" \"Who's that? I forget.\" \"Tony Last.\" \"Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them.\" \"Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten.\" \"Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table.\" \"What's their dossier?\" \"I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more.\" \"Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone.\" \"It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking.\" Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. \"That's the way,\" she said, \"you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting.\" \"Thank you, Mrs Beaver.\"<|quote|>They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said,</|quote|>\"Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you.\" The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... \"Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament.\" \"I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies.\" \"Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?\" \"He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there.\" \"Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye.\" After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from",
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No speaker
|
"Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you."
|
Unknowable
|
rang and a voice said,<|quote|>"Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you."</|quote|>The intervening silence was full
|
beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said,<|quote|>"Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you."</|quote|>The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping
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in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said,<|quote|>"Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you."</|quote|>The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was
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The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said,<|quote|>"Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you."</|quote|>The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know
|
wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said,<|quote|>"Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you."</|quote|>The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the
|
had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said,<|quote|>"Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you."</|quote|>The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was
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there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said that he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said,<|quote|>"Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you."</|quote|>The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency."
|
It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said,<|quote|>"Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you."</|quote|>The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said,<|quote|>"Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you."</|quote|>The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing
|
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"content": "You are helpful",
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"content": "It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table.\" \"What's their dossier?\" \"I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more.\" \"Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone.\" \"It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking.\" Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. \"That's the way,\" she said, \"you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting.\" \"Thank you, Mrs Beaver.\" They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said,<|quote|>\"Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you.\"</|quote|>The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... \"Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament.\" \"I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies.\" \"Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?\" \"He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there.\" \"Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye.\" After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, \"Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?\" or, more simply, \"Well, old boy?\" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. \"Well, old boy,\" he said. \"What are you drinking?\" \"Nothing",
"role": "user"
},
{
"content": "Unknowable",
"role": "assistant"
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}
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Unknowable
|
The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked...
|
No speaker
|
like to speak to you."<|quote|>The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked...</|quote|>"Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_
|
line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you."<|quote|>The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked...</|quote|>"Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you.
|
They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you."<|quote|>The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked...</|quote|>"Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean
|
the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you."<|quote|>The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked...</|quote|>"Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies,
|
while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you."<|quote|>The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked...</|quote|>"Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in
|
for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you."<|quote|>The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked...</|quote|>"Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are
|
having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving. He was twenty-five years old. From leaving Oxford until the beginning of the slump he had worked in an advertising agency. Since then no one had been able to find anything for him to do. So he got up late and sat near his telephone most of the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you."<|quote|>The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked...</|quote|>"Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few
|
able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you."<|quote|>The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked...</|quote|>"Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you."<|quote|>The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked...</|quote|>"Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it
|
{
"messages": [
{
"content": "You are helpful",
"role": "system"
},
{
"content": "able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out.\" \"Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet.\" (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... \"John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now\" \"... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) \"Where are you going for the week-end?\" \"Hetton.\" \"Who's that? I forget.\" \"Tony Last.\" \"Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them.\" \"Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten.\" \"Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table.\" \"What's their dossier?\" \"I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more.\" \"Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone.\" \"It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking.\" Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. \"That's the way,\" she said, \"you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting.\" \"Thank you, Mrs Beaver.\" They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, \"Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you.\"<|quote|>The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked...</|quote|>\"Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament.\" \"I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies.\" \"Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?\" \"He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there.\" \"Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye.\" After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it",
"role": "user"
},
{
"content": "No speaker",
"role": "assistant"
}
]
}
|
No speaker
|
"I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies."
|
John Beaver
|
think he was in Parliament."<|quote|>"I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies."</|quote|>"Yes, that's the name. You
|
with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament."<|quote|>"I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies."</|quote|>"Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know
|
her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament."<|quote|>"I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies."</|quote|>"Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club.
|
Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament."<|quote|>"I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies."</|quote|>"Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to
|
girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament."<|quote|>"I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies."</|quote|>"Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and
|
a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament."<|quote|>"I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies."</|quote|>"Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might
|
the day, hoping to be rung up. Whenever it was possible, Mrs Beaver took an hour off in the middle of the morning. She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament."<|quote|>"I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies."</|quote|>"Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards
|
Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament."<|quote|>"I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies."</|quote|>"Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament."<|quote|>"I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies."</|quote|>"Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What
|
{
"messages": [
{
"content": "You are helpful",
"role": "system"
},
{
"content": "Only be quick, because we're going in now\" \"... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) \"Where are you going for the week-end?\" \"Hetton.\" \"Who's that? I forget.\" \"Tony Last.\" \"Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them.\" \"Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten.\" \"Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table.\" \"What's their dossier?\" \"I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more.\" \"Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone.\" \"It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking.\" Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. \"That's the way,\" she said, \"you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting.\" \"Thank you, Mrs Beaver.\" They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, \"Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you.\" The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... \"Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament.\"<|quote|>\"I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies.\"</|quote|>\"Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?\" \"He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there.\" \"Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye.\" After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, \"Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?\" or, more simply, \"Well, old boy?\" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. \"Well, old boy,\" he said. \"What",
"role": "user"
},
{
"content": "John Beaver",
"role": "assistant"
}
]
}
|
John Beaver
|
"He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there."
|
John Beaver
|
can find him, do you?"<|quote|>"He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there."</|quote|>"Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank
|
any chance know where I can find him, do you?"<|quote|>"He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there."</|quote|>"Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It
|
name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?"<|quote|>"He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there."</|quote|>"Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled
|
expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?"<|quote|>"He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there."</|quote|>"Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin,
|
way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?"<|quote|>"He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there."</|quote|>"Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the
|
her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?"<|quote|>"He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there."</|quote|>"Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The
|
She was always at her shop punctually at nine, and by half-past eleven she needed a break. Then, if no important customer was imminent, she would get into her two-seater and drive home to Sussex Gardens. Beaver was usually dressed by then and she had grown to value their morning interchange of gossip. "What was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?"<|quote|>"He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there."</|quote|>"Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of
|
were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?"<|quote|>"He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there."</|quote|>"Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's
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A Handful Of Dust
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were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?"<|quote|>"He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there."</|quote|>"Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's
|
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"content": "You are helpful",
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"content": "were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. \"That's the way,\" she said, \"you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting.\" \"Thank you, Mrs Beaver.\" They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, \"Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you.\" The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... \"Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament.\" \"I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies.\" \"Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?\"<|quote|>\"He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there.\"</|quote|>\"Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye.\" After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, \"Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?\" or, more simply, \"Well, old boy?\" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. \"Well, old boy,\" he said. \"What are you drinking?\" \"Nothing so far.\" Beaver looked at his watch. \"But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale.\" Jock called to the barman and then said: \"Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?\" \"She's called Mrs Tipping.\" \"I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her.\" \"Are you going?\" \"No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here.\" The barman came with the drinks. \"Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month.\" \"Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?\" \"Very good, sir.\" Beaver said, \"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow.\" \"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love.\" \"What's the form?\" \"Very quiet and enjoyable.\" \"No paper games?\" \"Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours.\" \"Comfortable?\" \"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning.\" \"I've never met Brenda.\" \"You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world.\" \"Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there.\" \"I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train.\" \"Yes, but it's",
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John Beaver
|
After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver.
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No speaker
|
see me some day. _Good_-bye."<|quote|>After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver.</|quote|>"Well, old boy," he said.
|
hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye."<|quote|>After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver.</|quote|>"Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing
|
but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye."<|quote|>After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver.</|quote|>"Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last
|
man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye."<|quote|>After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver.</|quote|>"Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that
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had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye."<|quote|>After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver.</|quote|>"Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning."
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seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye."<|quote|>After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver.</|quote|>"Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for
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was your evening?" "Audrey rang up at eight and asked me to dinner. Ten of us at the Embassy, rather dreary. Afterwards we all went on to a party given by a woman called de Trommet." "I know who you mean. American. She hasn't paid for the toile-de-jouy chair covers we made her last April. I had a dull time too; didn't hold a card all the evening and came away four pounds ten to the bad." "Poor mumsy." "I'm lunching at Viola Chasm's. What are you doing? I didn't order anything here, I'm afraid." "Nothing so far. I can always go round to Bratt's." "But that's so expensive. I'm sure if we ask Chambers she'll be able to get you something in. I thought you were certain to be out." "Well, I still may be. It isn't twelve yet." (Most of Beaver's invitations came to him at the last moment; occasionally even later, when he had already begun to eat a solitary meal from a tray... "John, darling, there's been a muddle and Sonia has arrived without Reggie. Could you be an angel and help me out? Only be quick, because we're going in now" "... Then he would go headlong for a taxi and arrive, with apologies, after the first course... One of his few recent quarrels with his mother had occurred when he left a luncheon party of hers in this way.) "Where are you going for the week-end?" "Hetton." "Who's that? I forget." "Tony Last." "Yes, of course. She's lovely, he's rather a stick. I didn't know you knew them." "Well, I don't really. Tony asked me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye."<|quote|>After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver.</|quote|>"Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads,
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and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye."<|quote|>After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver.</|quote|>"Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall
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A Handful Of Dust
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and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye."<|quote|>After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver.</|quote|>"Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall
|
{
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"content": "and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. \"That's the way,\" she said, \"you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting.\" \"Thank you, Mrs Beaver.\" They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, \"Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you.\" The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... \"Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament.\" \"I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies.\" \"Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?\" \"He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there.\" \"Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye.\"<|quote|>After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, \"Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?\" or, more simply, \"Well, old boy?\" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver.</|quote|>\"Well, old boy,\" he said. \"What are you drinking?\" \"Nothing so far.\" Beaver looked at his watch. \"But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale.\" Jock called to the barman and then said: \"Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?\" \"She's called Mrs Tipping.\" \"I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her.\" \"Are you going?\" \"No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here.\" The barman came with the drinks. \"Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month.\" \"Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?\" \"Very good, sir.\" Beaver said, \"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow.\" \"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love.\" \"What's the form?\" \"Very quiet and enjoyable.\" \"No paper games?\" \"Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours.\" \"Comfortable?\" \"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning.\" \"I've never met Brenda.\" \"You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world.\" \"Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there.\" \"I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train.\" \"Yes, but it's more pleasant by road.\" \"And cheaper.\" \"Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?\" Beaver rose to go. \"Yes, I think I will.\" \"Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please.\" Macdougal said, \"Shall I book them to you, sir?\" \"Yes, if you will.\" Later, at the bar, Jock said, \"I made Beaver pay for a drink.\" \"He can't have liked that.\" \"He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?\" \"No. Why.\" \"Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency.\" * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. \"Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day.\" \"Will you ring her up and say that I shall",
"role": "user"
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"content": "No speaker",
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|
No speaker
|
"Well, old boy,"
|
Jock Grant-Menzies
|
stopped to talk to Beaver.<|quote|>"Well, old boy,"</|quote|>he said. "What are you
|
club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver.<|quote|>"Well, old boy,"</|quote|>he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver
|
"Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver.<|quote|>"Well, old boy,"</|quote|>he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called
|
settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver.<|quote|>"Well, old boy,"</|quote|>he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters
|
a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver.<|quote|>"Well, old boy,"</|quote|>he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met
|
particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver.<|quote|>"Well, old boy,"</|quote|>he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping
|
me in Bratt's the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver.<|quote|>"Well, old boy,"</|quote|>he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a
|
umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver.<|quote|>"Well, old boy,"</|quote|>he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house
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A Handful Of Dust
|
umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver.<|quote|>"Well, old boy,"</|quote|>he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house
|
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"messages": [
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"content": "You are helpful",
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"content": "umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, \"Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?\" or, more simply, \"Well, old boy?\" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver.<|quote|>\"Well, old boy,\"</|quote|>he said. \"What are you drinking?\" \"Nothing so far.\" Beaver looked at his watch. \"But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale.\" Jock called to the barman and then said: \"Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?\" \"She's called Mrs Tipping.\" \"I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her.\" \"Are you going?\" \"No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here.\" The barman came with the drinks. \"Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month.\" \"Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?\" \"Very good, sir.\" Beaver said, \"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow.\" \"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love.\" \"What's the form?\" \"Very quiet and enjoyable.\" \"No paper games?\" \"Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours.\" \"Comfortable?\" \"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning.\" \"I've never met Brenda.\" \"You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world.\" \"Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there.\" \"I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train.\" \"Yes, but it's more pleasant by road.\" \"And cheaper.\" \"Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?\" Beaver rose to go. \"Yes, I think I will.\" \"Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please.\" Macdougal said, \"Shall I book them to you, sir?\" \"Yes, if you will.\" Later, at the bar, Jock said, \"I made Beaver pay for a drink.\" \"He can't have liked that.\" \"He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?\" \"No. Why.\" \"Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency.\" * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. \"Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day.\" \"Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?\" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house",
"role": "user"
},
{
"content": "Jock Grant-Menzies",
"role": "assistant"
}
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|
Jock Grant-Menzies
|
he said.
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No speaker
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to Beaver. "Well, old boy,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"What are you drinking?" "Nothing
|
But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at
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He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping."
|
of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The
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recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll
|
her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up
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the other night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of
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rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll
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A Handful Of Dust
|
rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy,"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>"What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll
|
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"content": "rang and a voice said, \"Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you.\" The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... \"Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament.\" \"I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies.\" \"Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?\" \"He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there.\" \"Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye.\" After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, \"Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?\" or, more simply, \"Well, old boy?\" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. \"Well, old boy,\"<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>\"What are you drinking?\" \"Nothing so far.\" Beaver looked at his watch. \"But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale.\" Jock called to the barman and then said: \"Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?\" \"She's called Mrs Tipping.\" \"I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her.\" \"Are you going?\" \"No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here.\" The barman came with the drinks. \"Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month.\" \"Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?\" \"Very good, sir.\" Beaver said, \"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow.\" \"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love.\" \"What's the form?\" \"Very quiet and enjoyable.\" \"No paper games?\" \"Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours.\" \"Comfortable?\" \"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning.\" \"I've never met Brenda.\" \"You'll",
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No speaker
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"What are you drinking?"
|
Jock Grant-Menzies
|
"Well, old boy," he said.<|quote|>"What are you drinking?"</|quote|>"Nothing so far." Beaver looked
|
stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said.<|quote|>"What are you drinking?"</|quote|>"Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I
|
too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said.<|quote|>"What are you drinking?"</|quote|>"Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might
|
armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said.<|quote|>"What are you drinking?"</|quote|>"Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the
|
founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said.<|quote|>"What are you drinking?"</|quote|>"Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a
|
had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said.<|quote|>"What are you drinking?"</|quote|>"Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago
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night. He may have forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said.<|quote|>"What are you drinking?"</|quote|>"Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named
|
despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said.<|quote|>"What are you drinking?"</|quote|>"Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes
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A Handful Of Dust
|
despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said.<|quote|>"What are you drinking?"</|quote|>"Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes
|
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"content": "You are helpful",
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"content": "despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, \"Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?\" or, more simply, \"Well, old boy?\" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. \"Well, old boy,\" he said.<|quote|>\"What are you drinking?\"</|quote|>\"Nothing so far.\" Beaver looked at his watch. \"But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale.\" Jock called to the barman and then said: \"Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?\" \"She's called Mrs Tipping.\" \"I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her.\" \"Are you going?\" \"No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here.\" The barman came with the drinks. \"Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month.\" \"Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?\" \"Very good, sir.\" Beaver said, \"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow.\" \"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love.\" \"What's the form?\" \"Very quiet and enjoyable.\" \"No paper games?\" \"Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours.\" \"Comfortable?\" \"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning.\" \"I've never met Brenda.\" \"You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world.\" \"Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there.\" \"I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train.\" \"Yes, but it's more pleasant by road.\" \"And cheaper.\" \"Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?\" Beaver rose to go. \"Yes, I think I will.\" \"Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please.\" Macdougal said, \"Shall I book them to you, sir?\" \"Yes, if you will.\" Later, at the bar, Jock said, \"I made Beaver pay for a drink.\" \"He can't have liked that.\" \"He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?\" \"No. Why.\" \"Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency.\" * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. \"Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day.\" \"Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes",
"role": "user"
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"content": "Jock Grant-Menzies",
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Jock Grant-Menzies
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"Nothing so far."
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John Beaver
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said. "What are you drinking?"<|quote|>"Nothing so far."</|quote|>Beaver looked at his watch.
|
Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?"<|quote|>"Nothing so far."</|quote|>Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time
|
fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?"<|quote|>"Nothing so far."</|quote|>Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains
|
room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?"<|quote|>"Nothing so far."</|quote|>Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver,
|
of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?"<|quote|>"Nothing so far."</|quote|>Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I
|
Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?"<|quote|>"Nothing so far."</|quote|>Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether
|
forgotten." "Send a telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?"<|quote|>"Nothing so far."</|quote|>Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult,
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telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?"<|quote|>"Nothing so far."</|quote|>Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall
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A Handful Of Dust
|
telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?"<|quote|>"Nothing so far."</|quote|>Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall
|
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"content": "You are helpful",
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"content": "telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, \"Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you.\" The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... \"Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament.\" \"I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies.\" \"Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?\" \"He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there.\" \"Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye.\" After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, \"Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?\" or, more simply, \"Well, old boy?\" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. \"Well, old boy,\" he said. \"What are you drinking?\"<|quote|>\"Nothing so far.\"</|quote|>Beaver looked at his watch. \"But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale.\" Jock called to the barman and then said: \"Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?\" \"She's called Mrs Tipping.\" \"I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her.\" \"Are you going?\" \"No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here.\" The barman came with the drinks. \"Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month.\" \"Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?\" \"Very good, sir.\" Beaver said, \"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow.\" \"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love.\" \"What's the form?\" \"Very quiet and enjoyable.\" \"No paper games?\" \"Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours.\" \"Comfortable?\" \"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning.\" \"I've never met Brenda.\" \"You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world.\" \"Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there.\" \"I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train.\" \"Yes, but it's more pleasant by road.\" \"And cheaper.\" \"Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?\" Beaver rose to go. \"Yes, I think I will.\" \"Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please.\" Macdougal said, \"Shall",
"role": "user"
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"content": "John Beaver",
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John Beaver
|
Beaver looked at his watch.
|
No speaker
|
you drinking?" "Nothing so far."<|quote|>Beaver looked at his watch.</|quote|>"But I think it's time
|
boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far."<|quote|>Beaver looked at his watch.</|quote|>"But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and
|
war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far."<|quote|>Beaver looked at his watch.</|quote|>"But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a
|
over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far."<|quote|>Beaver looked at his watch.</|quote|>"But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against
|
after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far."<|quote|>Beaver looked at his watch.</|quote|>"But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one
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so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far."<|quote|>Beaver looked at his watch.</|quote|>"But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon
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telegram and remind them. It is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far."<|quote|>Beaver looked at his watch.</|quote|>"But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine
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very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far."<|quote|>Beaver looked at his watch.</|quote|>"But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about,
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A Handful Of Dust
|
very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far."<|quote|>Beaver looked at his watch.</|quote|>"But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about,
|
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"content": "You are helpful",
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"content": "very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting.\" \"Thank you, Mrs Beaver.\" They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, \"Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you.\" The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... \"Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament.\" \"I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies.\" \"Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?\" \"He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there.\" \"Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye.\" After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, \"Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?\" or, more simply, \"Well, old boy?\" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. \"Well, old boy,\" he said. \"What are you drinking?\" \"Nothing so far.\"<|quote|>Beaver looked at his watch.</|quote|>\"But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale.\" Jock called to the barman and then said: \"Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?\" \"She's called Mrs Tipping.\" \"I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her.\" \"Are you going?\" \"No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here.\" The barman came with the drinks. \"Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month.\" \"Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?\" \"Very good, sir.\" Beaver said, \"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow.\" \"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love.\" \"What's the form?\" \"Very quiet and enjoyable.\" \"No paper games?\" \"Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours.\" \"Comfortable?\" \"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning.\" \"I've never met Brenda.\" \"You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about,",
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No speaker
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"But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale."
|
John Beaver
|
Beaver looked at his watch.<|quote|>"But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale."</|quote|>Jock called to the barman
|
you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch.<|quote|>"But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale."</|quote|>Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was
|
he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch.<|quote|>"But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale."</|quote|>Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to
|
_New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch.<|quote|>"But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale."</|quote|>Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind
|
intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch.<|quote|>"But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale."</|quote|>Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves
|
I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch.<|quote|>"But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale."</|quote|>Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I
|
is far better than ringing up. It gives them less chance to make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch.<|quote|>"But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale."</|quote|>Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay,
|
there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch.<|quote|>"But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale."</|quote|>Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch.<|quote|>"But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale."</|quote|>Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt
|
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"content": "there.\" \"Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye.\" After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, \"Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?\" or, more simply, \"Well, old boy?\" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. \"Well, old boy,\" he said. \"What are you drinking?\" \"Nothing so far.\" Beaver looked at his watch.<|quote|>\"But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale.\"</|quote|>Jock called to the barman and then said: \"Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?\" \"She's called Mrs Tipping.\" \"I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her.\" \"Are you going?\" \"No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here.\" The barman came with the drinks. \"Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month.\" \"Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?\" \"Very good, sir.\" Beaver said, \"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow.\" \"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love.\" \"What's the form?\" \"Very quiet and enjoyable.\" \"No paper games?\" \"Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours.\" \"Comfortable?\" \"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning.\" \"I've never met Brenda.\" \"You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world.\" \"Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there.\" \"I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train.\" \"Yes, but it's more pleasant by road.\" \"And cheaper.\" \"Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?\" Beaver rose to go. \"Yes, I think I will.\" \"Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please.\" Macdougal said, \"Shall I book them to you, sir?\" \"Yes, if you will.\" Later, at the bar, Jock said, \"I made Beaver pay for a drink.\" \"He can't have liked that.\" \"He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?\" \"No. Why.\" \"Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency.\" * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. \"Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day.\" \"Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?\" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt",
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"content": "John Beaver",
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John Beaver
|
Jock called to the barman and then said:
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No speaker
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one. Brandy and ginger ale."<|quote|>Jock called to the barman and then said:</|quote|>"Who was the old girl
|
think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale."<|quote|>Jock called to the barman and then said:</|quote|>"Who was the old girl you wished on me at
|
Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale."<|quote|>Jock called to the barman and then said:</|quote|>"Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm
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came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale."<|quote|>Jock called to the barman and then said:</|quote|>"Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir."
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across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale."<|quote|>Jock called to the barman and then said:</|quote|>"Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted
|
young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale."<|quote|>Jock called to the barman and then said:</|quote|>"Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may
|
make excuses. Send it to-morrow just before you start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale."<|quote|>Jock called to the barman and then said:</|quote|>"Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on
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I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale."<|quote|>Jock called to the barman and then said:</|quote|>"Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale."<|quote|>Jock called to the barman and then said:</|quote|>"Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to
|
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"content": "I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament.\" \"I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies.\" \"Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?\" \"He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there.\" \"Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye.\" After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, \"Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?\" or, more simply, \"Well, old boy?\" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. \"Well, old boy,\" he said. \"What are you drinking?\" \"Nothing so far.\" Beaver looked at his watch. \"But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale.\"<|quote|>Jock called to the barman and then said:</|quote|>\"Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?\" \"She's called Mrs Tipping.\" \"I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her.\" \"Are you going?\" \"No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here.\" The barman came with the drinks. \"Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month.\" \"Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?\" \"Very good, sir.\" Beaver said, \"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow.\" \"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love.\" \"What's the form?\" \"Very quiet and enjoyable.\" \"No paper games?\" \"Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours.\" \"Comfortable?\" \"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning.\" \"I've never met Brenda.\" \"You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world.\" \"Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there.\" \"I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train.\" \"Yes, but it's more pleasant by road.\" \"And cheaper.\" \"Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?\" Beaver rose to go. \"Yes, I think I will.\" \"Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please.\" Macdougal said, \"Shall I book them to you, sir?\" \"Yes, if you will.\" Later, at the bar, Jock said, \"I made Beaver pay for a drink.\" \"He can't have liked that.\" \"He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?\" \"No. Why.\" \"Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency.\" * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. \"Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to",
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No speaker
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"Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?"
|
Jock Grant-Menzies
|
the barman and then said:<|quote|>"Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?"</|quote|>"She's called Mrs Tipping." "I
|
ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said:<|quote|>"Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?"</|quote|>"She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That
|
got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said:<|quote|>"Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?"</|quote|>"She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd
|
him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said:<|quote|>"Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?"</|quote|>"She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda
|
card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said:<|quote|>"Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?"</|quote|>"She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else
|
at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said:<|quote|>"Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?"</|quote|>"She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left
|
start. They owe me for a table." "What's their dossier?" "I used to see her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said:<|quote|>"Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?"</|quote|>"She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb
|
origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said:<|quote|>"Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?"</|quote|>"She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of
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A Handful Of Dust
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origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said:<|quote|>"Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?"</|quote|>"She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of
|
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"content": "origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, \"Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?\" or, more simply, \"Well, old boy?\" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. \"Well, old boy,\" he said. \"What are you drinking?\" \"Nothing so far.\" Beaver looked at his watch. \"But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale.\" Jock called to the barman and then said:<|quote|>\"Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?\"</|quote|>\"She's called Mrs Tipping.\" \"I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her.\" \"Are you going?\" \"No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here.\" The barman came with the drinks. \"Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month.\" \"Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?\" \"Very good, sir.\" Beaver said, \"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow.\" \"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love.\" \"What's the form?\" \"Very quiet and enjoyable.\" \"No paper games?\" \"Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours.\" \"Comfortable?\" \"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning.\" \"I've never met Brenda.\" \"You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world.\" \"Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there.\" \"I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train.\" \"Yes, but it's more pleasant by road.\" \"And cheaper.\" \"Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?\" Beaver rose to go. \"Yes, I think I will.\" \"Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please.\" Macdougal said, \"Shall I book them to you, sir?\" \"Yes, if you will.\" Later, at the bar, Jock said, \"I made Beaver pay for a drink.\" \"He can't have liked that.\" \"He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?\" \"No. Why.\" \"Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency.\" * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. \"Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day.\" \"Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?\" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of",
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Jock Grant-Menzies
|
"She's called Mrs Tipping."
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John Beaver
|
at that party last night?"<|quote|>"She's called Mrs Tipping."</|quote|>"I thought she might be.
|
girl you wished on me at that party last night?"<|quote|>"She's called Mrs Tipping."</|quote|>"I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave
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old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?"<|quote|>"She's called Mrs Tipping."</|quote|>"I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The
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old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?"<|quote|>"She's called Mrs Tipping."</|quote|>"I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the
|
into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?"<|quote|>"She's called Mrs Tipping."</|quote|>"I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you?
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in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?"<|quote|>"She's called Mrs Tipping."</|quote|>"I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at
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her quite a lot before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?"<|quote|>"She's called Mrs Tipping."</|quote|>"I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century,
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something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?"<|quote|>"She's called Mrs Tipping."</|quote|>"I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift
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A Handful Of Dust
|
something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?"<|quote|>"She's called Mrs Tipping."</|quote|>"I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift
|
{
"messages": [
{
"content": "You are helpful",
"role": "system"
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"content": "something more interesting.\" \"Thank you, Mrs Beaver.\" They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, \"Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you.\" The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... \"Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament.\" \"I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies.\" \"Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?\" \"He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there.\" \"Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye.\" After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, \"Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?\" or, more simply, \"Well, old boy?\" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. \"Well, old boy,\" he said. \"What are you drinking?\" \"Nothing so far.\" Beaver looked at his watch. \"But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale.\" Jock called to the barman and then said: \"Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?\"<|quote|>\"She's called Mrs Tipping.\"</|quote|>\"I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her.\" \"Are you going?\" \"No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here.\" The barman came with the drinks. \"Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month.\" \"Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?\" \"Very good, sir.\" Beaver said, \"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow.\" \"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love.\" \"What's the form?\" \"Very quiet and enjoyable.\" \"No paper games?\" \"Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours.\" \"Comfortable?\" \"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning.\" \"I've never met Brenda.\" \"You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world.\" \"Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift",
"role": "user"
},
{
"content": "John Beaver",
"role": "assistant"
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}
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John Beaver
|
"I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her."
|
Jock Grant-Menzies
|
night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping."<|quote|>"I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her."</|quote|>"Are you going?" "No, I'm
|
me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping."<|quote|>"I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her."</|quote|>"Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties.
|
"What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping."<|quote|>"I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her."</|quote|>"Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time,
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too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping."<|quote|>"I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her."</|quote|>"Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?"
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were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping."<|quote|>"I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her."</|quote|>"Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road."
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you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping."<|quote|>"I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her."</|quote|>"Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This,
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before she married. She was Brenda Rex, Lord St Cloud's daughter, very fair, underwater look. People used to be mad about her when she was a girl. Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping."<|quote|>"I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her."</|quote|>"Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a
|
_am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping."<|quote|>"I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her."</|quote|>"Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I
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A Handful Of Dust
|
_am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping."<|quote|>"I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her."</|quote|>"Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I
|
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"content": "You are helpful",
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"content": "_am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament.\" \"I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies.\" \"Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?\" \"He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there.\" \"Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye.\" After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, \"Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?\" or, more simply, \"Well, old boy?\" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. \"Well, old boy,\" he said. \"What are you drinking?\" \"Nothing so far.\" Beaver looked at his watch. \"But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale.\" Jock called to the barman and then said: \"Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?\" \"She's called Mrs Tipping.\"<|quote|>\"I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her.\"</|quote|>\"Are you going?\" \"No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here.\" The barman came with the drinks. \"Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month.\" \"Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?\" \"Very good, sir.\" Beaver said, \"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow.\" \"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love.\" \"What's the form?\" \"Very quiet and enjoyable.\" \"No paper games?\" \"Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours.\" \"Comfortable?\" \"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning.\" \"I've never met Brenda.\" \"You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world.\" \"Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there.\" \"I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train.\" \"Yes, but it's more pleasant by road.\" \"And cheaper.\" \"Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?\" Beaver rose to go. \"Yes, I",
"role": "user"
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"content": "Jock Grant-Menzies",
"role": "assistant"
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Jock Grant-Menzies
|
"Are you going?"
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John Beaver
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me to lunch with her."<|quote|>"Are you going?"</|quote|>"No, I'm no good at
|
a name like that wanted me to lunch with her."<|quote|>"Are you going?"</|quote|>"No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided
|
the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her."<|quote|>"Are you going?"</|quote|>"No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very
|
thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her."<|quote|>"Are you going?"</|quote|>"No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty
|
successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her."<|quote|>"Are you going?"</|quote|>"No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes,
|
don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her."<|quote|>"Are you going?"</|quote|>"No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of
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Everyone thought she would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her."<|quote|>"Are you going?"</|quote|>"No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant
|
Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her."<|quote|>"Are you going?"</|quote|>"No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her."<|quote|>"Are you going?"</|quote|>"No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two
|
{
"messages": [
{
"content": "You are helpful",
"role": "system"
},
{
"content": "Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you.\" The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... \"Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament.\" \"I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies.\" \"Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?\" \"He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there.\" \"Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye.\" After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, \"Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?\" or, more simply, \"Well, old boy?\" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. \"Well, old boy,\" he said. \"What are you drinking?\" \"Nothing so far.\" Beaver looked at his watch. \"But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale.\" Jock called to the barman and then said: \"Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?\" \"She's called Mrs Tipping.\" \"I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her.\"<|quote|>\"Are you going?\"</|quote|>\"No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here.\" The barman came with the drinks. \"Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month.\" \"Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?\" \"Very good, sir.\" Beaver said, \"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow.\" \"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love.\" \"What's the form?\" \"Very quiet and enjoyable.\" \"No paper games?\" \"Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours.\" \"Comfortable?\" \"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning.\" \"I've never met Brenda.\" \"You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world.\" \"Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there.\" \"I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train.\" \"Yes, but it's more pleasant by road.\" \"And cheaper.\" \"Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?\" Beaver rose to go. \"Yes, I think I will.\" \"Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two",
"role": "user"
},
{
"content": "John Beaver",
"role": "assistant"
}
]
}
|
John Beaver
|
"No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here."
|
Jock Grant-Menzies
|
with her." "Are you going?"<|quote|>"No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here."</|quote|>The barman came with the
|
that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?"<|quote|>"No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here."</|quote|>The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's
|
then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?"<|quote|>"No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here."</|quote|>The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's
|
to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?"<|quote|>"No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here."</|quote|>The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda."
|
lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?"<|quote|>"No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here."</|quote|>The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes,
|
be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?"<|quote|>"No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here."</|quote|>The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid
|
would marry Jock Grant-Menzies at one time. Wasted on Tony Last, he's a prig. I should say it was time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?"<|quote|>"No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here."</|quote|>The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he
|
that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?"<|quote|>"No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here."</|quote|>The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt
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A Handful Of Dust
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that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?"<|quote|>"No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here."</|quote|>The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt
|
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"content": "You are helpful",
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"content": "that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?\" \"He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there.\" \"Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye.\" After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, \"Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?\" or, more simply, \"Well, old boy?\" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. \"Well, old boy,\" he said. \"What are you drinking?\" \"Nothing so far.\" Beaver looked at his watch. \"But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale.\" Jock called to the barman and then said: \"Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?\" \"She's called Mrs Tipping.\" \"I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her.\" \"Are you going?\"<|quote|>\"No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here.\"</|quote|>The barman came with the drinks. \"Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month.\" \"Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?\" \"Very good, sir.\" Beaver said, \"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow.\" \"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love.\" \"What's the form?\" \"Very quiet and enjoyable.\" \"No paper games?\" \"Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours.\" \"Comfortable?\" \"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning.\" \"I've never met Brenda.\" \"You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world.\" \"Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there.\" \"I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train.\" \"Yes, but it's more pleasant by road.\" \"And cheaper.\" \"Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?\" Beaver rose to go. \"Yes, I think I will.\" \"Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please.\" Macdougal said, \"Shall I book them to you, sir?\" \"Yes, if you will.\" Later, at the bar, Jock said, \"I made Beaver pay for a drink.\" \"He can't have liked that.\" \"He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?\" \"No. Why.\" \"Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency.\" * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. \"Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day.\" \"Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?\" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt",
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"content": "Jock Grant-Menzies",
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Jock Grant-Menzies
|
The barman came with the drinks.
|
No speaker
|
that I'd have oysters here."<|quote|>The barman came with the drinks.</|quote|>"Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten
|
decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here."<|quote|>The barman came with the drinks.</|quote|>"Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my
|
Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here."<|quote|>The barman came with the drinks.</|quote|>"Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable."
|
said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here."<|quote|>The barman came with the drinks.</|quote|>"Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand
|
the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here."<|quote|>The barman came with the drinks.</|quote|>"Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all
|
there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here."<|quote|>The barman came with the drinks.</|quote|>"Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open
|
time she began to be bored. They've been married five or six years. Quite well off but everything goes in keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here."<|quote|>The barman came with the drinks.</|quote|>"Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people
|
club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here."<|quote|>The barman came with the drinks.</|quote|>"Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here."<|quote|>The barman came with the drinks.</|quote|>"Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for
|
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"content": "club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, \"Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?\" or, more simply, \"Well, old boy?\" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. \"Well, old boy,\" he said. \"What are you drinking?\" \"Nothing so far.\" Beaver looked at his watch. \"But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale.\" Jock called to the barman and then said: \"Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?\" \"She's called Mrs Tipping.\" \"I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her.\" \"Are you going?\" \"No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here.\"<|quote|>The barman came with the drinks.</|quote|>\"Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month.\" \"Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?\" \"Very good, sir.\" Beaver said, \"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow.\" \"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love.\" \"What's the form?\" \"Very quiet and enjoyable.\" \"No paper games?\" \"Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours.\" \"Comfortable?\" \"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning.\" \"I've never met Brenda.\" \"You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world.\" \"Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there.\" \"I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train.\" \"Yes, but it's more pleasant by road.\" \"And cheaper.\" \"Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?\" Beaver rose to go. \"Yes, I think I will.\" \"Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please.\" Macdougal said, \"Shall I book them to you, sir?\" \"Yes, if you will.\" Later, at the bar, Jock said, \"I made Beaver pay for a drink.\" \"He can't have liked that.\" \"He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?\" \"No. Why.\" \"Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency.\" * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. \"Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day.\" \"Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?\" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils\" designs for",
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No speaker
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"Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?"
|
John Beaver
|
my books for last month."<|quote|>"Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?"</|quote|>"Very good, sir." Beaver said,
|
ten shillings against you in my books for last month."<|quote|>"Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?"</|quote|>"Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow."
|
like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month."<|quote|>"Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?"</|quote|>"Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad.
|
one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month."<|quote|>"Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?"</|quote|>"Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's
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should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month."<|quote|>"Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?"</|quote|>"Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said,
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and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month."<|quote|>"Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?"</|quote|>"Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The
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keeping up the house. I've never seen it but I've an idea it's huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month."<|quote|>"Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?"</|quote|>"Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when
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chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month."<|quote|>"Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?"</|quote|>"Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * *
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A Handful Of Dust
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chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month."<|quote|>"Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?"</|quote|>"Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * *
|
{
"messages": [
{
"content": "You are helpful",
"role": "system"
},
{
"content": "chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, \"Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you.\" The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... \"Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament.\" \"I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies.\" \"Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?\" \"He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there.\" \"Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye.\" After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, \"Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?\" or, more simply, \"Well, old boy?\" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. \"Well, old boy,\" he said. \"What are you drinking?\" \"Nothing so far.\" Beaver looked at his watch. \"But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale.\" Jock called to the barman and then said: \"Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?\" \"She's called Mrs Tipping.\" \"I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her.\" \"Are you going?\" \"No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here.\" The barman came with the drinks. \"Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month.\"<|quote|>\"Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?\"</|quote|>\"Very good, sir.\" Beaver said, \"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow.\" \"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love.\" \"What's the form?\" \"Very quiet and enjoyable.\" \"No paper games?\" \"Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours.\" \"Comfortable?\" \"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning.\" \"I've never met Brenda.\" \"You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world.\" \"Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there.\" \"I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train.\" \"Yes, but it's more pleasant by road.\" \"And cheaper.\" \"Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?\" Beaver rose to go. \"Yes, I think I will.\" \"Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please.\" Macdougal said, \"Shall I book them to you, sir?\" \"Yes, if you will.\" Later, at the bar, Jock said, \"I made Beaver pay for a drink.\" \"He can't have liked that.\" \"He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?\" \"No. Why.\" \"Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency.\" * * * * *",
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"content": "John Beaver",
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|
John Beaver
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Beaver said,
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No speaker
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will you?" "Very good, sir."<|quote|>Beaver said,</|quote|>"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow."
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Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir."<|quote|>Beaver said,</|quote|>"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony
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no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir."<|quote|>Beaver said,</|quote|>"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a
|
"Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir."<|quote|>Beaver said,</|quote|>"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not
|
him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir."<|quote|>Beaver said,</|quote|>"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for
|
one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir."<|quote|>Beaver said,</|quote|>"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._
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huge and quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir."<|quote|>Beaver said,</|quote|>"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in
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manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir."<|quote|>Beaver said,</|quote|>"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage
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A Handful Of Dust
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manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir."<|quote|>Beaver said,</|quote|>"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage
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"content": "manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, \"Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?\" or, more simply, \"Well, old boy?\" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. \"Well, old boy,\" he said. \"What are you drinking?\" \"Nothing so far.\" Beaver looked at his watch. \"But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale.\" Jock called to the barman and then said: \"Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?\" \"She's called Mrs Tipping.\" \"I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her.\" \"Are you going?\" \"No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here.\" The barman came with the drinks. \"Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month.\" \"Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?\" \"Very good, sir.\"<|quote|>Beaver said,</|quote|>\"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow.\" \"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love.\" \"What's the form?\" \"Very quiet and enjoyable.\" \"No paper games?\" \"Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours.\" \"Comfortable?\" \"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning.\" \"I've never met Brenda.\" \"You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world.\" \"Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there.\" \"I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train.\" \"Yes, but it's more pleasant by road.\" \"And cheaper.\" \"Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?\" Beaver rose to go. \"Yes, I think I will.\" \"Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please.\" Macdougal said, \"Shall I book them to you, sir?\" \"Yes, if you will.\" Later, at the bar, Jock said, \"I made Beaver pay for a drink.\" \"He can't have liked that.\" \"He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?\" \"No. Why.\" \"Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency.\" * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. \"Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day.\" \"Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?\" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage",
"role": "user"
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"content": "No speaker",
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No speaker
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"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow."
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John Beaver
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"Very good, sir." Beaver said,<|quote|>"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow."</|quote|>"Are you now? Give Tony
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me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said,<|quote|>"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow."</|quote|>"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's
|
at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said,<|quote|>"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow."</|quote|>"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can
|
the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said,<|quote|>"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow."</|quote|>"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world."
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"Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said,<|quote|>"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow."</|quote|>"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have
|
Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said,<|quote|>"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow."</|quote|>"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county
|
quite hideous. They've got one child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said,<|quote|>"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow."</|quote|>"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it
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chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said,<|quote|>"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow."</|quote|>"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall,
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A Handful Of Dust
|
chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said,<|quote|>"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow."</|quote|>"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall,
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"content": "chucked... \"Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament.\" \"I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies.\" \"Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?\" \"He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there.\" \"Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye.\" After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, \"Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?\" or, more simply, \"Well, old boy?\" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. \"Well, old boy,\" he said. \"What are you drinking?\" \"Nothing so far.\" Beaver looked at his watch. \"But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale.\" Jock called to the barman and then said: \"Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?\" \"She's called Mrs Tipping.\" \"I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her.\" \"Are you going?\" \"No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here.\" The barman came with the drinks. \"Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month.\" \"Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?\" \"Very good, sir.\" Beaver said,<|quote|>\"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow.\"</|quote|>\"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love.\" \"What's the form?\" \"Very quiet and enjoyable.\" \"No paper games?\" \"Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours.\" \"Comfortable?\" \"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning.\" \"I've never met Brenda.\" \"You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world.\" \"Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there.\" \"I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train.\" \"Yes, but it's more pleasant by road.\" \"And cheaper.\" \"Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?\" Beaver rose to go. \"Yes, I think I will.\" \"Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please.\" Macdougal said, \"Shall I book them to you, sir?\" \"Yes, if you will.\" Later, at the bar, Jock said, \"I made Beaver pay for a drink.\" \"He can't have liked that.\" \"He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?\" \"No. Why.\" \"Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency.\" * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. \"Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day.\" \"Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?\" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils\" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall,",
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John Beaver
|
"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love."
|
Jock Grant-Menzies
|
"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow."<|quote|>"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love."</|quote|>"What's the form?" "Very quiet
|
"Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow."<|quote|>"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love."</|quote|>"What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?"
|
decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow."<|quote|>"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love."</|quote|>"What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met
|
on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow."<|quote|>"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love."</|quote|>"What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going,
|
are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow."<|quote|>"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love."</|quote|>"What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything
|
his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow."<|quote|>"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love."</|quote|>"What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious
|
child at least, perhaps more." "Mumsy, you are wonderful. I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow."<|quote|>"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love."</|quote|>"What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as "amusing", and a very civil
|
and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow."<|quote|>"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love."</|quote|>"What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the
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A Handful Of Dust
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and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow."<|quote|>"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love."</|quote|>"What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the
|
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"content": "and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, \"Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?\" or, more simply, \"Well, old boy?\" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. \"Well, old boy,\" he said. \"What are you drinking?\" \"Nothing so far.\" Beaver looked at his watch. \"But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale.\" Jock called to the barman and then said: \"Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?\" \"She's called Mrs Tipping.\" \"I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her.\" \"Are you going?\" \"No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here.\" The barman came with the drinks. \"Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month.\" \"Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?\" \"Very good, sir.\" Beaver said, \"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow.\"<|quote|>\"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love.\"</|quote|>\"What's the form?\" \"Very quiet and enjoyable.\" \"No paper games?\" \"Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours.\" \"Comfortable?\" \"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning.\" \"I've never met Brenda.\" \"You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world.\" \"Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there.\" \"I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train.\" \"Yes, but it's more pleasant by road.\" \"And cheaper.\" \"Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?\" Beaver rose to go. \"Yes, I think I will.\" \"Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please.\" Macdougal said, \"Shall I book them to you, sir?\" \"Yes, if you will.\" Later, at the bar, Jock said, \"I made Beaver pay for a drink.\" \"He can't have liked that.\" \"He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?\" \"No. Why.\" \"Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency.\" * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. \"Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day.\" \"Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?\" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the",
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"content": "Jock Grant-Menzies",
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Jock Grant-Menzies
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"What's the form?"
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John Beaver
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Tony and Brenda my love."<|quote|>"What's the form?"</|quote|>"Very quiet and enjoyable." "No
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to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love."<|quote|>"What's the form?"</|quote|>"Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing
|
here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love."<|quote|>"What's the form?"</|quote|>"Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like
|
Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love."<|quote|>"What's the form?"</|quote|>"Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I
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He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love."<|quote|>"What's the form?"</|quote|>"Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No.
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neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love."<|quote|>"What's the form?"</|quote|>"Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things
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I believe you know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love."<|quote|>"What's the form?"</|quote|>"Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as "amusing", and a very civil young man had
|
you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love."<|quote|>"What's the form?"</|quote|>"Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love."<|quote|>"What's the form?"</|quote|>"Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder
|
{
"messages": [
{
"content": "You are helpful",
"role": "system"
},
{
"content": "you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye.\" After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, \"Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?\" or, more simply, \"Well, old boy?\" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. \"Well, old boy,\" he said. \"What are you drinking?\" \"Nothing so far.\" Beaver looked at his watch. \"But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale.\" Jock called to the barman and then said: \"Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?\" \"She's called Mrs Tipping.\" \"I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her.\" \"Are you going?\" \"No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here.\" The barman came with the drinks. \"Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month.\" \"Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?\" \"Very good, sir.\" Beaver said, \"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow.\" \"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love.\"<|quote|>\"What's the form?\"</|quote|>\"Very quiet and enjoyable.\" \"No paper games?\" \"Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours.\" \"Comfortable?\" \"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning.\" \"I've never met Brenda.\" \"You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world.\" \"Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there.\" \"I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train.\" \"Yes, but it's more pleasant by road.\" \"And cheaper.\" \"Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?\" Beaver rose to go. \"Yes, I think I will.\" \"Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please.\" Macdougal said, \"Shall I book them to you, sir?\" \"Yes, if you will.\" Later, at the bar, Jock said, \"I made Beaver pay for a drink.\" \"He can't have liked that.\" \"He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?\" \"No. Why.\" \"Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency.\" * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. \"Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day.\" \"Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?\" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder",
"role": "user"
},
{
"content": "John Beaver",
"role": "assistant"
}
]
}
|
John Beaver
|
"Very quiet and enjoyable."
|
Jock Grant-Menzies
|
my love." "What's the form?"<|quote|>"Very quiet and enjoyable."</|quote|>"No paper games?" "Oh, no,
|
now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?"<|quote|>"Very quiet and enjoyable."</|quote|>"No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain
|
came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?"<|quote|>"Very quiet and enjoyable."</|quote|>"No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand
|
thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?"<|quote|>"Very quiet and enjoyable."</|quote|>"No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I
|
young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?"<|quote|>"Very quiet and enjoyable."</|quote|>"No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they
|
set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?"<|quote|>"Very quiet and enjoyable."</|quote|>"No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His
|
know about everyone." "It's a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?"<|quote|>"Very quiet and enjoyable."</|quote|>"No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as "amusing", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph
|
home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?"<|quote|>"Very quiet and enjoyable."</|quote|>"No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?"<|quote|>"Very quiet and enjoyable."</|quote|>"No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of
|
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"content": "home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there.\" \"Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye.\" After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, \"Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?\" or, more simply, \"Well, old boy?\" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. \"Well, old boy,\" he said. \"What are you drinking?\" \"Nothing so far.\" Beaver looked at his watch. \"But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale.\" Jock called to the barman and then said: \"Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?\" \"She's called Mrs Tipping.\" \"I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her.\" \"Are you going?\" \"No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here.\" The barman came with the drinks. \"Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month.\" \"Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?\" \"Very good, sir.\" Beaver said, \"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow.\" \"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love.\" \"What's the form?\"<|quote|>\"Very quiet and enjoyable.\"</|quote|>\"No paper games?\" \"Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours.\" \"Comfortable?\" \"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning.\" \"I've never met Brenda.\" \"You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world.\" \"Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there.\" \"I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train.\" \"Yes, but it's more pleasant by road.\" \"And cheaper.\" \"Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?\" Beaver rose to go. \"Yes, I think I will.\" \"Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please.\" Macdougal said, \"Shall I book them to you, sir?\" \"Yes, if you will.\" Later, at the bar, Jock said, \"I made Beaver pay for a drink.\" \"He can't have liked that.\" \"He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?\" \"No. Why.\" \"Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency.\" * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. \"Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day.\" \"Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?\" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of",
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"content": "Jock Grant-Menzies",
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Jock Grant-Menzies
|
"No paper games?"
|
John Beaver
|
form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable."<|quote|>"No paper games?"</|quote|>"Oh, no, nothing like that.
|
Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable."<|quote|>"No paper games?"</|quote|>"Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge
|
"Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable."<|quote|>"No paper games?"</|quote|>"Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often
|
That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable."<|quote|>"No paper games?"</|quote|>"Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a
|
in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable."<|quote|>"No paper games?"</|quote|>"Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to
|
club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable."<|quote|>"No paper games?"</|quote|>"Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered
|
a great help. All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable."<|quote|>"No paper games?"</|quote|>"Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as "amusing", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an
|
been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable."<|quote|>"No paper games?"</|quote|>"Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable."<|quote|>"No paper games?"</|quote|>"Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and
|
{
"messages": [
{
"content": "You are helpful",
"role": "system"
},
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"content": "been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... \"Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament.\" \"I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies.\" \"Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?\" \"He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there.\" \"Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye.\" After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, \"Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?\" or, more simply, \"Well, old boy?\" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. \"Well, old boy,\" he said. \"What are you drinking?\" \"Nothing so far.\" Beaver looked at his watch. \"But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale.\" Jock called to the barman and then said: \"Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?\" \"She's called Mrs Tipping.\" \"I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her.\" \"Are you going?\" \"No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here.\" The barman came with the drinks. \"Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month.\" \"Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?\" \"Very good, sir.\" Beaver said, \"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow.\" \"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love.\" \"What's the form?\" \"Very quiet and enjoyable.\"<|quote|>\"No paper games?\"</|quote|>\"Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours.\" \"Comfortable?\" \"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning.\" \"I've never met Brenda.\" \"You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world.\" \"Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there.\" \"I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train.\" \"Yes, but it's more pleasant by road.\" \"And cheaper.\" \"Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?\" Beaver rose to go. \"Yes, I think I will.\" \"Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please.\" Macdougal said, \"Shall I book them to you, sir?\" \"Yes, if you will.\" Later, at the bar, Jock said, \"I made Beaver pay for a drink.\" \"He can't have liked that.\" \"He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?\" \"No. Why.\" \"Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency.\" * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. \"Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day.\" \"Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?\" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and",
"role": "user"
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{
"content": "John Beaver",
"role": "assistant"
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|
John Beaver
|
"Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours."
|
Jock Grant-Menzies
|
and enjoyable." "No paper games?"<|quote|>"Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours."</|quote|>"Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to
|
"What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?"<|quote|>"Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours."</|quote|>"Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of
|
there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?"<|quote|>"Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours."</|quote|>"Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place,
|
They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?"<|quote|>"Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours."</|quote|>"Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by
|
but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?"<|quote|>"Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours."</|quote|>"Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into
|
penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?"<|quote|>"Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours."</|quote|>"Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by
|
All a matter of paying attention while people are talking." Mrs Beaver smoked a cigarette and then drove back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?"<|quote|>"Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours."</|quote|>"Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as "amusing", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair.
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"Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?"<|quote|>"Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours."</|quote|>"Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily
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A Handful Of Dust
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"Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?"<|quote|>"Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours."</|quote|>"Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily
|
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"messages": [
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"content": "You are helpful",
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"content": "\"Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?\" \"He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there.\" \"Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye.\" After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, \"Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?\" or, more simply, \"Well, old boy?\" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. \"Well, old boy,\" he said. \"What are you drinking?\" \"Nothing so far.\" Beaver looked at his watch. \"But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale.\" Jock called to the barman and then said: \"Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?\" \"She's called Mrs Tipping.\" \"I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her.\" \"Are you going?\" \"No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here.\" The barman came with the drinks. \"Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month.\" \"Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?\" \"Very good, sir.\" Beaver said, \"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow.\" \"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love.\" \"What's the form?\" \"Very quiet and enjoyable.\" \"No paper games?\"<|quote|>\"Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours.\"</|quote|>\"Comfortable?\" \"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning.\" \"I've never met Brenda.\" \"You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world.\" \"Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there.\" \"I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train.\" \"Yes, but it's more pleasant by road.\" \"And cheaper.\" \"Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?\" Beaver rose to go. \"Yes, I think I will.\" \"Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please.\" Macdougal said, \"Shall I book them to you, sir?\" \"Yes, if you will.\" Later, at the bar, Jock said, \"I made Beaver pay for a drink.\" \"He can't have liked that.\" \"He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?\" \"No. Why.\" \"Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency.\" * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. \"Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day.\" \"Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?\" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily",
"role": "user"
},
{
"content": "Jock Grant-Menzies",
"role": "assistant"
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Jock Grant-Menzies
|
"Comfortable?"
|
John Beaver
|
low poker with the neighbours."<|quote|>"Comfortable?"</|quote|>"Not bad. Plenty to drink.
|
of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours."<|quote|>"Comfortable?"</|quote|>"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms.
|
time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours."<|quote|>"Comfortable?"</|quote|>"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one
|
her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours."<|quote|>"Comfortable?"</|quote|>"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road."
|
they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours."<|quote|>"Comfortable?"</|quote|>"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the
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antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours."<|quote|>"Comfortable?"</|quote|>"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr
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back to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours."<|quote|>"Comfortable?"</|quote|>"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as "amusing", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In
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knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours."<|quote|>"Comfortable?"</|quote|>"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart.
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A Handful Of Dust
|
knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours."<|quote|>"Comfortable?"</|quote|>"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart.
|
{
"messages": [
{
"content": "You are helpful",
"role": "system"
},
{
"content": "knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... \"Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament.\" \"I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies.\" \"Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?\" \"He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there.\" \"Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye.\" After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, \"Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?\" or, more simply, \"Well, old boy?\" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. \"Well, old boy,\" he said. \"What are you drinking?\" \"Nothing so far.\" Beaver looked at his watch. \"But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale.\" Jock called to the barman and then said: \"Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?\" \"She's called Mrs Tipping.\" \"I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her.\" \"Are you going?\" \"No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here.\" The barman came with the drinks. \"Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month.\" \"Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?\" \"Very good, sir.\" Beaver said, \"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow.\" \"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love.\" \"What's the form?\" \"Very quiet and enjoyable.\" \"No paper games?\" \"Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours.\"<|quote|>\"Comfortable?\"</|quote|>\"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning.\" \"I've never met Brenda.\" \"You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world.\" \"Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there.\" \"I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train.\" \"Yes, but it's more pleasant by road.\" \"And cheaper.\" \"Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?\" Beaver rose to go. \"Yes, I think I will.\" \"Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please.\" Macdougal said, \"Shall I book them to you, sir?\" \"Yes, if you will.\" Later, at the bar, Jock said, \"I made Beaver pay for a drink.\" \"He can't have liked that.\" \"He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?\" \"No. Why.\" \"Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency.\" * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. \"Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day.\" \"Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?\" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils\" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart.",
"role": "user"
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"content": "John Beaver",
"role": "assistant"
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}
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John Beaver
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"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning."
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Jock Grant-Menzies
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poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?"<|quote|>"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning."</|quote|>"I've never met Brenda." "You'll
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bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?"<|quote|>"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning."</|quote|>"I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand
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will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?"<|quote|>"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning."</|quote|>"I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone
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"Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?"<|quote|>"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning."</|quote|>"I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver
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thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?"<|quote|>"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning."</|quote|>"I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for
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pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?"<|quote|>"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning."</|quote|>"I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or
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to her shop. An American woman bought two patchwork quilts at thirty guineas each, Lady Metroland telephoned about a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?"<|quote|>"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning."</|quote|>"I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as "amusing", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the
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club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?"<|quote|>"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning."</|quote|>"I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed
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A Handful Of Dust
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club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?"<|quote|>"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning."</|quote|>"I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed
|
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"content": "club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, \"Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?\" or, more simply, \"Well, old boy?\" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. \"Well, old boy,\" he said. \"What are you drinking?\" \"Nothing so far.\" Beaver looked at his watch. \"But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale.\" Jock called to the barman and then said: \"Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?\" \"She's called Mrs Tipping.\" \"I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her.\" \"Are you going?\" \"No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here.\" The barman came with the drinks. \"Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month.\" \"Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?\" \"Very good, sir.\" Beaver said, \"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow.\" \"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love.\" \"What's the form?\" \"Very quiet and enjoyable.\" \"No paper games?\" \"Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours.\" \"Comfortable?\"<|quote|>\"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning.\"</|quote|>\"I've never met Brenda.\" \"You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world.\" \"Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there.\" \"I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train.\" \"Yes, but it's more pleasant by road.\" \"And cheaper.\" \"Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?\" Beaver rose to go. \"Yes, I think I will.\" \"Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please.\" Macdougal said, \"Shall I book them to you, sir?\" \"Yes, if you will.\" Later, at the bar, Jock said, \"I made Beaver pay for a drink.\" \"He can't have liked that.\" \"He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?\" \"No. Why.\" \"Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency.\" * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. \"Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day.\" \"Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?\" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils\" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed",
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Jock Grant-Menzies
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"I've never met Brenda."
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John Beaver
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in bed all the morning."<|quote|>"I've never met Brenda."</|quote|>"You'll like her, she's a
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of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning."<|quote|>"I've never met Brenda."</|quote|>"You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think
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Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning."<|quote|>"I've never met Brenda."</|quote|>"You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do
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I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning."<|quote|>"I've never met Brenda."</|quote|>"You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes,
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"Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning."<|quote|>"I've never met Brenda."</|quote|>"You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang
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a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning."<|quote|>"I've never met Brenda."</|quote|>"You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was
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a bathroom ceiling, an unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning."<|quote|>"I've never met Brenda."</|quote|>"You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as "amusing", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted
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after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning."<|quote|>"I've never met Brenda."</|quote|>"You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted
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A Handful Of Dust
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after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning."<|quote|>"I've never met Brenda."</|quote|>"You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted
|
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"content": "after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, \"Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?\" or, more simply, \"Well, old boy?\" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. \"Well, old boy,\" he said. \"What are you drinking?\" \"Nothing so far.\" Beaver looked at his watch. \"But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale.\" Jock called to the barman and then said: \"Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?\" \"She's called Mrs Tipping.\" \"I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her.\" \"Are you going?\" \"No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here.\" The barman came with the drinks. \"Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month.\" \"Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?\" \"Very good, sir.\" Beaver said, \"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow.\" \"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love.\" \"What's the form?\" \"Very quiet and enjoyable.\" \"No paper games?\" \"Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours.\" \"Comfortable?\" \"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning.\"<|quote|>\"I've never met Brenda.\"</|quote|>\"You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world.\" \"Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there.\" \"I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train.\" \"Yes, but it's more pleasant by road.\" \"And cheaper.\" \"Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?\" Beaver rose to go. \"Yes, I think I will.\" \"Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please.\" Macdougal said, \"Shall I book them to you, sir?\" \"Yes, if you will.\" Later, at the bar, Jock said, \"I made Beaver pay for a drink.\" \"He can't have liked that.\" \"He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?\" \"No. Why.\" \"Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency.\" * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. \"Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day.\" \"Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?\" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted",
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"content": "John Beaver",
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John Beaver
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"You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world."
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Jock Grant-Menzies
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morning." "I've never met Brenda."<|quote|>"You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world."</|quote|>"Most enviable. You don't know
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stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda."<|quote|>"You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world."</|quote|>"Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do
|
the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda."<|quote|>"You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world."</|quote|>"Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to
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The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda."<|quote|>"You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world."</|quote|>"Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have
|
said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda."<|quote|>"You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world."</|quote|>"Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was
|
origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda."<|quote|>"You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world."</|quote|>"Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would
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unknown young man paid cash for a cushion; in the intervals between these events, Mrs Beaver was able to descend to the basement where two dispirited girls were packing lampshades. It was cold down there in spite of a little oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda."<|quote|>"You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world."</|quote|>"Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as "amusing", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another
|
Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda."<|quote|>"You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world."</|quote|>"Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of
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A Handful Of Dust
|
Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda."<|quote|>"You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world."</|quote|>"Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of
|
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"content": "Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament.\" \"I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies.\" \"Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?\" \"He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there.\" \"Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye.\" After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, \"Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?\" or, more simply, \"Well, old boy?\" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. \"Well, old boy,\" he said. \"What are you drinking?\" \"Nothing so far.\" Beaver looked at his watch. \"But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale.\" Jock called to the barman and then said: \"Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?\" \"She's called Mrs Tipping.\" \"I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her.\" \"Are you going?\" \"No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here.\" The barman came with the drinks. \"Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month.\" \"Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?\" \"Very good, sir.\" Beaver said, \"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow.\" \"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love.\" \"What's the form?\" \"Very quiet and enjoyable.\" \"No paper games?\" \"Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours.\" \"Comfortable?\" \"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning.\" \"I've never met Brenda.\"<|quote|>\"You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world.\"</|quote|>\"Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there.\" \"I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train.\" \"Yes, but it's more pleasant by road.\" \"And cheaper.\" \"Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?\" Beaver rose to go. \"Yes, I think I will.\" \"Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please.\" Macdougal said, \"Shall I book them to you, sir?\" \"Yes, if you will.\" Later, at the bar, Jock said, \"I made Beaver pay for a drink.\" \"He can't have liked that.\" \"He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?\" \"No. Why.\" \"Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency.\" * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. \"Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day.\" \"Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?\" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of",
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Jock Grant-Menzies
|
"Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there."
|
John Beaver
|
a worry in the world."<|quote|>"Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there."</|quote|>"I don't, I'm afraid. It's
|
crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world."<|quote|>"Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there."</|quote|>"I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes,
|
stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world."<|quote|>"Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there."</|quote|>"I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal
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"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world."<|quote|>"Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there."</|quote|>"I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them
|
on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world."<|quote|>"Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there."</|quote|>"I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I]
|
But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world."<|quote|>"Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there."</|quote|>"I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place;
|
oil stove, and the walls were always damp. The girls were becoming quite deft, she noticed with pleasure, particularly the shorter one who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world."<|quote|>"Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there."</|quote|>"I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as "amusing", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking
|
Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world."<|quote|>"Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there."</|quote|>"I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world."<|quote|>"Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there."</|quote|>"I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in
|
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"content": "Jock Grant-Menzies.\" \"Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?\" \"He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there.\" \"Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye.\" After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, \"Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?\" or, more simply, \"Well, old boy?\" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. \"Well, old boy,\" he said. \"What are you drinking?\" \"Nothing so far.\" Beaver looked at his watch. \"But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale.\" Jock called to the barman and then said: \"Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?\" \"She's called Mrs Tipping.\" \"I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her.\" \"Are you going?\" \"No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here.\" The barman came with the drinks. \"Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month.\" \"Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?\" \"Very good, sir.\" Beaver said, \"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow.\" \"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love.\" \"What's the form?\" \"Very quiet and enjoyable.\" \"No paper games?\" \"Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours.\" \"Comfortable?\" \"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning.\" \"I've never met Brenda.\" \"You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world.\"<|quote|>\"Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there.\"</|quote|>\"I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train.\" \"Yes, but it's more pleasant by road.\" \"And cheaper.\" \"Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?\" Beaver rose to go. \"Yes, I think I will.\" \"Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please.\" Macdougal said, \"Shall I book them to you, sir?\" \"Yes, if you will.\" Later, at the bar, Jock said, \"I made Beaver pay for a drink.\" \"He can't have liked that.\" \"He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?\" \"No. Why.\" \"Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency.\" * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. \"Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day.\" \"Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?\" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils\" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in",
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"content": "John Beaver",
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John Beaver
|
"I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train."
|
Jock Grant-Menzies
|
get a lift down there."<|quote|>"I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train."</|quote|>"Yes, but it's more pleasant
|
was wondering if I could get a lift down there."<|quote|>"I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train."</|quote|>"Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes,
|
one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there."<|quote|>"I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train."</|quote|>"Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes,
|
like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there."<|quote|>"I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train."</|quote|>"Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver
|
a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there."<|quote|>"I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train."</|quote|>"Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies
|
had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there."<|quote|>"I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train."</|quote|>"Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the
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who was handling the crates like a man. "That's the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there."<|quote|>"I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train."</|quote|>"Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as "amusing", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew
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you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there."<|quote|>"I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train."</|quote|>"Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of
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A Handful Of Dust
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you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there."<|quote|>"I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train."</|quote|>"Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of
|
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"content": "you drinking?\" \"Nothing so far.\" Beaver looked at his watch. \"But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale.\" Jock called to the barman and then said: \"Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?\" \"She's called Mrs Tipping.\" \"I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her.\" \"Are you going?\" \"No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here.\" The barman came with the drinks. \"Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month.\" \"Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?\" \"Very good, sir.\" Beaver said, \"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow.\" \"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love.\" \"What's the form?\" \"Very quiet and enjoyable.\" \"No paper games?\" \"Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours.\" \"Comfortable?\" \"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning.\" \"I've never met Brenda.\" \"You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world.\" \"Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there.\"<|quote|>\"I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train.\"</|quote|>\"Yes, but it's more pleasant by road.\" \"And cheaper.\" \"Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?\" Beaver rose to go. \"Yes, I think I will.\" \"Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please.\" Macdougal said, \"Shall I book them to you, sir?\" \"Yes, if you will.\" Later, at the bar, Jock said, \"I made Beaver pay for a drink.\" \"He can't have liked that.\" \"He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?\" \"No. Why.\" \"Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency.\" * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. \"Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day.\" \"Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?\" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of",
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Jock Grant-Menzies
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"Yes, but it's more pleasant by road."
|
John Beaver
|
It's quite easy by train."<|quote|>"Yes, but it's more pleasant by road."</|quote|>"And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper
|
there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train."<|quote|>"Yes, but it's more pleasant by road."</|quote|>"And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going
|
just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train."<|quote|>"Yes, but it's more pleasant by road."</|quote|>"And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar,
|
and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train."<|quote|>"Yes, but it's more pleasant by road."</|quote|>"And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the
|
that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train."<|quote|>"Yes, but it's more pleasant by road."</|quote|>"And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This,
|
was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train."<|quote|>"Yes, but it's more pleasant by road."</|quote|>"And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed
|
the way," she said, "you are doing very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train."<|quote|>"Yes, but it's more pleasant by road."</|quote|>"And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as "amusing", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered
|
in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train."<|quote|>"Yes, but it's more pleasant by road."</|quote|>"And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day
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A Handful Of Dust
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in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train."<|quote|>"Yes, but it's more pleasant by road."</|quote|>"And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day
|
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"content": "in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, \"Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?\" or, more simply, \"Well, old boy?\" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. \"Well, old boy,\" he said. \"What are you drinking?\" \"Nothing so far.\" Beaver looked at his watch. \"But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale.\" Jock called to the barman and then said: \"Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?\" \"She's called Mrs Tipping.\" \"I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her.\" \"Are you going?\" \"No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here.\" The barman came with the drinks. \"Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month.\" \"Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?\" \"Very good, sir.\" Beaver said, \"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow.\" \"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love.\" \"What's the form?\" \"Very quiet and enjoyable.\" \"No paper games?\" \"Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours.\" \"Comfortable?\" \"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning.\" \"I've never met Brenda.\" \"You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world.\" \"Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there.\" \"I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train.\"<|quote|>\"Yes, but it's more pleasant by road.\"</|quote|>\"And cheaper.\" \"Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?\" Beaver rose to go. \"Yes, I think I will.\" \"Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please.\" Macdougal said, \"Shall I book them to you, sir?\" \"Yes, if you will.\" Later, at the bar, Jock said, \"I made Beaver pay for a drink.\" \"He can't have liked that.\" \"He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?\" \"No. Why.\" \"Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency.\" * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. \"Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day.\" \"Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?\" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils\" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day",
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"content": "John Beaver",
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John Beaver
|
"And cheaper."
|
Jock Grant-Menzies
|
it's more pleasant by road."<|quote|>"And cheaper."</|quote|>"Yes, and cheaper I suppose...
|
easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road."<|quote|>"And cheaper."</|quote|>"Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to
|
son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road."<|quote|>"And cheaper."</|quote|>"Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said,
|
"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road."<|quote|>"And cheaper."</|quote|>"Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he
|
"Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road."<|quote|>"And cheaper."</|quote|>"Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one
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successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road."<|quote|>"And cheaper."</|quote|>"Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but
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very nicely, Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road."<|quote|>"And cheaper."</|quote|>"Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as "amusing", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it
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thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road."<|quote|>"And cheaper."</|quote|>"Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public
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A Handful Of Dust
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thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road."<|quote|>"And cheaper."</|quote|>"Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public
|
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"content": "thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. \"Well, old boy,\" he said. \"What are you drinking?\" \"Nothing so far.\" Beaver looked at his watch. \"But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale.\" Jock called to the barman and then said: \"Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?\" \"She's called Mrs Tipping.\" \"I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her.\" \"Are you going?\" \"No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here.\" The barman came with the drinks. \"Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month.\" \"Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?\" \"Very good, sir.\" Beaver said, \"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow.\" \"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love.\" \"What's the form?\" \"Very quiet and enjoyable.\" \"No paper games?\" \"Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours.\" \"Comfortable?\" \"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning.\" \"I've never met Brenda.\" \"You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world.\" \"Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there.\" \"I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train.\" \"Yes, but it's more pleasant by road.\"<|quote|>\"And cheaper.\"</|quote|>\"Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?\" Beaver rose to go. \"Yes, I think I will.\" \"Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please.\" Macdougal said, \"Shall I book them to you, sir?\" \"Yes, if you will.\" Later, at the bar, Jock said, \"I made Beaver pay for a drink.\" \"He can't have liked that.\" \"He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?\" \"No. Why.\" \"Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency.\" * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. \"Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day.\" \"Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?\" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public",
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Jock Grant-Menzies
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"Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?"
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John Beaver
|
pleasant by road." "And cheaper."<|quote|>"Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?"</|quote|>Beaver rose to go. "Yes,
|
train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper."<|quote|>"Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?"</|quote|>Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh,
|
crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper."<|quote|>"Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?"</|quote|>Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died
|
Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper."<|quote|>"Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?"</|quote|>Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message
|
going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper."<|quote|>"Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?"</|quote|>Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic
|
their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper."<|quote|>"Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?"</|quote|>Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted
|
Joyce. I'll soon get you on to something more interesting." "Thank you, Mrs Beaver." They had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper."<|quote|>"Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?"</|quote|>Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as "amusing", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay
|
was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper."<|quote|>"Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?"</|quote|>Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper."<|quote|>"Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?"</|quote|>Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through
|
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"content": "was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, \"Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?\" or, more simply, \"Well, old boy?\" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. \"Well, old boy,\" he said. \"What are you drinking?\" \"Nothing so far.\" Beaver looked at his watch. \"But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale.\" Jock called to the barman and then said: \"Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?\" \"She's called Mrs Tipping.\" \"I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her.\" \"Are you going?\" \"No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here.\" The barman came with the drinks. \"Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month.\" \"Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?\" \"Very good, sir.\" Beaver said, \"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow.\" \"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love.\" \"What's the form?\" \"Very quiet and enjoyable.\" \"No paper games?\" \"Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours.\" \"Comfortable?\" \"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning.\" \"I've never met Brenda.\" \"You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world.\" \"Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there.\" \"I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train.\" \"Yes, but it's more pleasant by road.\" \"And cheaper.\"<|quote|>\"Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?\"</|quote|>Beaver rose to go. \"Yes, I think I will.\" \"Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please.\" Macdougal said, \"Shall I book them to you, sir?\" \"Yes, if you will.\" Later, at the bar, Jock said, \"I made Beaver pay for a drink.\" \"He can't have liked that.\" \"He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?\" \"No. Why.\" \"Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency.\" * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. \"Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day.\" \"Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?\" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils\" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through",
"role": "user"
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John Beaver
|
Beaver rose to go.
|
No speaker
|
lunch. You won't have another?"<|quote|>Beaver rose to go.</|quote|>"Yes, I think I will."
|
well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?"<|quote|>Beaver rose to go.</|quote|>"Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two
|
anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?"<|quote|>Beaver rose to go.</|quote|>"Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything
|
morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?"<|quote|>Beaver rose to go.</|quote|>"Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping
|
that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?"<|quote|>Beaver rose to go.</|quote|>"Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now
|
He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?"<|quote|>Beaver rose to go.</|quote|>"Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red
|
had better stay in the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?"<|quote|>Beaver rose to go.</|quote|>"Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as "amusing", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room
|
its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?"<|quote|>Beaver rose to go.</|quote|>"Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram,
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A Handful Of Dust
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its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?"<|quote|>Beaver rose to go.</|quote|>"Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram,
|
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"content": "its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, \"Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?\" or, more simply, \"Well, old boy?\" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. \"Well, old boy,\" he said. \"What are you drinking?\" \"Nothing so far.\" Beaver looked at his watch. \"But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale.\" Jock called to the barman and then said: \"Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?\" \"She's called Mrs Tipping.\" \"I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her.\" \"Are you going?\" \"No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here.\" The barman came with the drinks. \"Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month.\" \"Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?\" \"Very good, sir.\" Beaver said, \"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow.\" \"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love.\" \"What's the form?\" \"Very quiet and enjoyable.\" \"No paper games?\" \"Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours.\" \"Comfortable?\" \"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning.\" \"I've never met Brenda.\" \"You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world.\" \"Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there.\" \"I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train.\" \"Yes, but it's more pleasant by road.\" \"And cheaper.\" \"Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?\"<|quote|>Beaver rose to go.</|quote|>\"Yes, I think I will.\" \"Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please.\" Macdougal said, \"Shall I book them to you, sir?\" \"Yes, if you will.\" Later, at the bar, Jock said, \"I made Beaver pay for a drink.\" \"He can't have liked that.\" \"He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?\" \"No. Why.\" \"Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency.\" * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. \"Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day.\" \"Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?\" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils\" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels\" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram,",
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No speaker
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"Yes, I think I will."
|
Jock Grant-Menzies
|
another?" Beaver rose to go.<|quote|>"Yes, I think I will."</|quote|>"Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two
|
to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go.<|quote|>"Yes, I think I will."</|quote|>"Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall
|
do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go.<|quote|>"Yes, I think I will."</|quote|>"Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only
|
Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go.<|quote|>"Yes, I think I will."</|quote|>"Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes
|
here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go.<|quote|>"Yes, I think I will."</|quote|>"Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds
|
of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go.<|quote|>"Yes, I think I will."</|quote|>"Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts
|
the packing department for a bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go.<|quote|>"Yes, I think I will."</|quote|>"Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as "amusing", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery.
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have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go.<|quote|>"Yes, I think I will."</|quote|>"Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine,
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A Handful Of Dust
|
have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go.<|quote|>"Yes, I think I will."</|quote|>"Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine,
|
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"content": "have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. \"Well, old boy,\" he said. \"What are you drinking?\" \"Nothing so far.\" Beaver looked at his watch. \"But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale.\" Jock called to the barman and then said: \"Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?\" \"She's called Mrs Tipping.\" \"I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her.\" \"Are you going?\" \"No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here.\" The barman came with the drinks. \"Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month.\" \"Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?\" \"Very good, sir.\" Beaver said, \"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow.\" \"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love.\" \"What's the form?\" \"Very quiet and enjoyable.\" \"No paper games?\" \"Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours.\" \"Comfortable?\" \"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning.\" \"I've never met Brenda.\" \"You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world.\" \"Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there.\" \"I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train.\" \"Yes, but it's more pleasant by road.\" \"And cheaper.\" \"Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?\" Beaver rose to go.<|quote|>\"Yes, I think I will.\"</|quote|>\"Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please.\" Macdougal said, \"Shall I book them to you, sir?\" \"Yes, if you will.\" Later, at the bar, Jock said, \"I made Beaver pay for a drink.\" \"He can't have liked that.\" \"He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?\" \"No. Why.\" \"Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency.\" * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. \"Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day.\" \"Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?\" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils\" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels\" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine,",
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"content": "Jock Grant-Menzies",
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Jock Grant-Menzies
|
"Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please."
|
John Beaver
|
"Yes, I think I will."<|quote|>"Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please."</|quote|>Macdougal said, "Shall I book
|
another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will."<|quote|>"Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please."</|quote|>Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes,
|
if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will."<|quote|>"Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please."</|quote|>Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about
|
a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will."<|quote|>"Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please."</|quote|>Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come
|
the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will."<|quote|>"Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please."</|quote|>Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until
|
outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will."<|quote|>"Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please."</|quote|>Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit
|
bit, Mrs Beaver decided; as long as they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will."<|quote|>"Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please."</|quote|>Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as "amusing", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that
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across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will."<|quote|>"Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please."</|quote|>Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will."<|quote|>"Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please."</|quote|>Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a
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"content": "across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, \"Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?\" or, more simply, \"Well, old boy?\" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. \"Well, old boy,\" he said. \"What are you drinking?\" \"Nothing so far.\" Beaver looked at his watch. \"But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale.\" Jock called to the barman and then said: \"Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?\" \"She's called Mrs Tipping.\" \"I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her.\" \"Are you going?\" \"No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here.\" The barman came with the drinks. \"Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month.\" \"Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?\" \"Very good, sir.\" Beaver said, \"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow.\" \"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love.\" \"What's the form?\" \"Very quiet and enjoyable.\" \"No paper games?\" \"Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours.\" \"Comfortable?\" \"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning.\" \"I've never met Brenda.\" \"You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world.\" \"Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there.\" \"I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train.\" \"Yes, but it's more pleasant by road.\" \"And cheaper.\" \"Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?\" Beaver rose to go. \"Yes, I think I will.\"<|quote|>\"Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please.\"</|quote|>Macdougal said, \"Shall I book them to you, sir?\" \"Yes, if you will.\" Later, at the bar, Jock said, \"I made Beaver pay for a drink.\" \"He can't have liked that.\" \"He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?\" \"No. Why.\" \"Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency.\" * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. \"Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day.\" \"Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?\" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils\" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels\" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a",
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"content": "John Beaver",
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John Beaver
|
Macdougal said,
|
No speaker
|
right. Macdougal. Two more, please."<|quote|>Macdougal said,</|quote|>"Shall I book them to
|
think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please."<|quote|>Macdougal said,</|quote|>"Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you
|
there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please."<|quote|>Macdougal said,</|quote|>"Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from
|
Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please."<|quote|>Macdougal said,</|quote|>"Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon
|
shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please."<|quote|>Macdougal said,</|quote|>"Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and
|
of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please."<|quote|>Macdougal said,</|quote|>"Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day
|
they would stand it. They had neither of them enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please."<|quote|>Macdougal said,</|quote|>"Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as "amusing", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would
|
downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please."<|quote|>Macdougal said,</|quote|>"Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the
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A Handful Of Dust
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downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please."<|quote|>Macdougal said,</|quote|>"Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the
|
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"content": "downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her.\" \"Are you going?\" \"No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here.\" The barman came with the drinks. \"Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month.\" \"Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?\" \"Very good, sir.\" Beaver said, \"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow.\" \"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love.\" \"What's the form?\" \"Very quiet and enjoyable.\" \"No paper games?\" \"Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours.\" \"Comfortable?\" \"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning.\" \"I've never met Brenda.\" \"You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world.\" \"Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there.\" \"I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train.\" \"Yes, but it's more pleasant by road.\" \"And cheaper.\" \"Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?\" Beaver rose to go. \"Yes, I think I will.\" \"Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please.\"<|quote|>Macdougal said,</|quote|>\"Shall I book them to you, sir?\" \"Yes, if you will.\" Later, at the bar, Jock said, \"I made Beaver pay for a drink.\" \"He can't have liked that.\" \"He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?\" \"No. Why.\" \"Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency.\" * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. \"Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day.\" \"Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?\" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils\" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the",
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No speaker
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"Yes, if you will."
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John Beaver
|
book them to you, sir?"<|quote|>"Yes, if you will."</|quote|>Later, at the bar, Jock
|
please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?"<|quote|>"Yes, if you will."</|quote|>Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay
|
train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?"<|quote|>"Yes, if you will."</|quote|>Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but
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got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?"<|quote|>"Yes, if you will."</|quote|>Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that
|
"Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?"<|quote|>"Yes, if you will."</|quote|>Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains
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should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?"<|quote|>"Yes, if you will."</|quote|>Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a
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enough chic to work upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?"<|quote|>"Yes, if you will."</|quote|>Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as "amusing", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for
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and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?"<|quote|>"Yes, if you will."</|quote|>Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in
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A Handful Of Dust
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and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?"<|quote|>"Yes, if you will."</|quote|>Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in
|
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"content": "and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, \"Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?\" or, more simply, \"Well, old boy?\" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. \"Well, old boy,\" he said. \"What are you drinking?\" \"Nothing so far.\" Beaver looked at his watch. \"But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale.\" Jock called to the barman and then said: \"Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?\" \"She's called Mrs Tipping.\" \"I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her.\" \"Are you going?\" \"No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here.\" The barman came with the drinks. \"Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month.\" \"Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?\" \"Very good, sir.\" Beaver said, \"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow.\" \"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love.\" \"What's the form?\" \"Very quiet and enjoyable.\" \"No paper games?\" \"Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours.\" \"Comfortable?\" \"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning.\" \"I've never met Brenda.\" \"You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world.\" \"Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there.\" \"I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train.\" \"Yes, but it's more pleasant by road.\" \"And cheaper.\" \"Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?\" Beaver rose to go. \"Yes, I think I will.\" \"Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please.\" Macdougal said, \"Shall I book them to you, sir?\"<|quote|>\"Yes, if you will.\"</|quote|>Later, at the bar, Jock said, \"I made Beaver pay for a drink.\" \"He can't have liked that.\" \"He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?\" \"No. Why.\" \"Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency.\" * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. \"Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day.\" \"Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?\" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils\" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in",
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"content": "John Beaver",
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John Beaver
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Later, at the bar, Jock said,
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No speaker
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sir?" "Yes, if you will."<|quote|>Later, at the bar, Jock said,</|quote|>"I made Beaver pay for
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I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will."<|quote|>Later, at the bar, Jock said,</|quote|>"I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have
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more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will."<|quote|>Later, at the bar, Jock said,</|quote|>"I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he
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loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will."<|quote|>Later, at the bar, Jock said,</|quote|>"I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but
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remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will."<|quote|>Later, at the bar, Jock said,</|quote|>"I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The
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Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will."<|quote|>Later, at the bar, Jock said,</|quote|>"I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought
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upstairs. Both had paid good premiums to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will."<|quote|>Later, at the bar, Jock said,</|quote|>"I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as "amusing", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life
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That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will."<|quote|>Later, at the bar, Jock said,</|quote|>"I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that
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A Handful Of Dust
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That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will."<|quote|>Later, at the bar, Jock said,</|quote|>"I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that
|
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"content": "That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her.\" \"Are you going?\" \"No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here.\" The barman came with the drinks. \"Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month.\" \"Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?\" \"Very good, sir.\" Beaver said, \"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow.\" \"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love.\" \"What's the form?\" \"Very quiet and enjoyable.\" \"No paper games?\" \"Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours.\" \"Comfortable?\" \"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning.\" \"I've never met Brenda.\" \"You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world.\" \"Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there.\" \"I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train.\" \"Yes, but it's more pleasant by road.\" \"And cheaper.\" \"Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?\" Beaver rose to go. \"Yes, I think I will.\" \"Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please.\" Macdougal said, \"Shall I book them to you, sir?\" \"Yes, if you will.\"<|quote|>Later, at the bar, Jock said,</|quote|>\"I made Beaver pay for a drink.\" \"He can't have liked that.\" \"He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?\" \"No. Why.\" \"Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency.\" * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. \"Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day.\" \"Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?\" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils\" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that",
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No speaker
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"I made Beaver pay for a drink."
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Jock Grant-Menzies
|
at the bar, Jock said,<|quote|>"I made Beaver pay for a drink."</|quote|>"He can't have liked that."
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"Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said,<|quote|>"I made Beaver pay for a drink."</|quote|>"He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it.
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"Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said,<|quote|>"I made Beaver pay for a drink."</|quote|>"He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his
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crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said,<|quote|>"I made Beaver pay for a drink."</|quote|>"He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes
|
"Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said,<|quote|>"I made Beaver pay for a drink."</|quote|>"He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage
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the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said,<|quote|>"I made Beaver pay for a drink."</|quote|>"He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty
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to learn Mrs Beaver's art. Beaver sat on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said,<|quote|>"I made Beaver pay for a drink."</|quote|>"He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as "amusing", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had
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be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said,<|quote|>"I made Beaver pay for a drink."</|quote|>"He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said,<|quote|>"I made Beaver pay for a drink."</|quote|>"He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts
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"content": "be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, \"Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?\" or, more simply, \"Well, old boy?\" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. \"Well, old boy,\" he said. \"What are you drinking?\" \"Nothing so far.\" Beaver looked at his watch. \"But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale.\" Jock called to the barman and then said: \"Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?\" \"She's called Mrs Tipping.\" \"I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her.\" \"Are you going?\" \"No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here.\" The barman came with the drinks. \"Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month.\" \"Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?\" \"Very good, sir.\" Beaver said, \"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow.\" \"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love.\" \"What's the form?\" \"Very quiet and enjoyable.\" \"No paper games?\" \"Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours.\" \"Comfortable?\" \"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning.\" \"I've never met Brenda.\" \"You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world.\" \"Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there.\" \"I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train.\" \"Yes, but it's more pleasant by road.\" \"And cheaper.\" \"Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?\" Beaver rose to go. \"Yes, I think I will.\" \"Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please.\" Macdougal said, \"Shall I book them to you, sir?\" \"Yes, if you will.\" Later, at the bar, Jock said,<|quote|>\"I made Beaver pay for a drink.\"</|quote|>\"He can't have liked that.\" \"He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?\" \"No. Why.\" \"Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency.\" * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. \"Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day.\" \"Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?\" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils\" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts",
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Jock Grant-Menzies
|
"He can't have liked that."
|
Unknowable
|
Beaver pay for a drink."<|quote|>"He can't have liked that."</|quote|>"He nearly died of it.
|
bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink."<|quote|>"He can't have liked that."</|quote|>"He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No.
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going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink."<|quote|>"He can't have liked that."</|quote|>"He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there
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in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink."<|quote|>"He can't have liked that."</|quote|>"He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after
|
to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink."<|quote|>"He can't have liked that."</|quote|>"He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book
|
old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink."<|quote|>"He can't have liked that."</|quote|>"He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of
|
on beside his telephone. Once it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink."<|quote|>"He can't have liked that."</|quote|>"He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as "amusing", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room
|
old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink."<|quote|>"He can't have liked that."</|quote|>"He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink."<|quote|>"He can't have liked that."</|quote|>"He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with
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"content": "old girl you wished on me at that party last night?\" \"She's called Mrs Tipping.\" \"I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her.\" \"Are you going?\" \"No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here.\" The barman came with the drinks. \"Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month.\" \"Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?\" \"Very good, sir.\" Beaver said, \"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow.\" \"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love.\" \"What's the form?\" \"Very quiet and enjoyable.\" \"No paper games?\" \"Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours.\" \"Comfortable?\" \"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning.\" \"I've never met Brenda.\" \"You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world.\" \"Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there.\" \"I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train.\" \"Yes, but it's more pleasant by road.\" \"And cheaper.\" \"Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?\" Beaver rose to go. \"Yes, I think I will.\" \"Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please.\" Macdougal said, \"Shall I book them to you, sir?\" \"Yes, if you will.\" Later, at the bar, Jock said, \"I made Beaver pay for a drink.\"<|quote|>\"He can't have liked that.\"</|quote|>\"He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?\" \"No. Why.\" \"Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency.\" * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. \"Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day.\" \"Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?\" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils\" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels\" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with",
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Unknowable
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"He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?"
|
Jock Grant-Menzies
|
"He can't have liked that."<|quote|>"He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?"</|quote|>"No. Why." "Only that they
|
Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that."<|quote|>"He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?"</|quote|>"No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about
|
won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that."<|quote|>"He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?"</|quote|>"No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up
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You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that."<|quote|>"He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?"</|quote|>"No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at
|
now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that."<|quote|>"He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?"</|quote|>"No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder
|
drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that."<|quote|>"He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?"</|quote|>"No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through
|
it rang and a voice said, "Mr Beaver? Will you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that."<|quote|>"He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?"</|quote|>"No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as "amusing", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added
|
did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that."<|quote|>"He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?"</|quote|>"No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that."<|quote|>"He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?"</|quote|>"No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one
|
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"content": "You are helpful",
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"content": "did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. \"Well, old boy,\" he said. \"What are you drinking?\" \"Nothing so far.\" Beaver looked at his watch. \"But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale.\" Jock called to the barman and then said: \"Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?\" \"She's called Mrs Tipping.\" \"I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her.\" \"Are you going?\" \"No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here.\" The barman came with the drinks. \"Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month.\" \"Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?\" \"Very good, sir.\" Beaver said, \"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow.\" \"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love.\" \"What's the form?\" \"Very quiet and enjoyable.\" \"No paper games?\" \"Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours.\" \"Comfortable?\" \"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning.\" \"I've never met Brenda.\" \"You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world.\" \"Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there.\" \"I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train.\" \"Yes, but it's more pleasant by road.\" \"And cheaper.\" \"Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?\" Beaver rose to go. \"Yes, I think I will.\" \"Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please.\" Macdougal said, \"Shall I book them to you, sir?\" \"Yes, if you will.\" Later, at the bar, Jock said, \"I made Beaver pay for a drink.\" \"He can't have liked that.\"<|quote|>\"He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?\"</|quote|>\"No. Why.\" \"Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency.\" * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. \"Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day.\" \"Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?\" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils\" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels\" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one",
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"content": "Jock Grant-Menzies",
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Jock Grant-Menzies
|
"No. Why."
|
Unknowable
|
it. Know anything about pigs?"<|quote|>"No. Why."</|quote|>"Only that they keep writing
|
that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?"<|quote|>"No. Why."</|quote|>"Only that they keep writing to me about them from
|
think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?"<|quote|>"No. Why."</|quote|>"Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few
|
I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?"<|quote|>"No. Why."</|quote|>"Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good
|
form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?"<|quote|>"No. Why."</|quote|>"Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had
|
too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?"<|quote|>"No. Why."</|quote|>"Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of
|
you please hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?"<|quote|>"No. Why."</|quote|>"Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as "amusing", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its
|
corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?"<|quote|>"No. Why."</|quote|>"Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?"<|quote|>"No. Why."</|quote|>"Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic
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"content": "corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, \"Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?\" or, more simply, \"Well, old boy?\" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. \"Well, old boy,\" he said. \"What are you drinking?\" \"Nothing so far.\" Beaver looked at his watch. \"But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale.\" Jock called to the barman and then said: \"Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?\" \"She's called Mrs Tipping.\" \"I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her.\" \"Are you going?\" \"No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here.\" The barman came with the drinks. \"Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month.\" \"Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?\" \"Very good, sir.\" Beaver said, \"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow.\" \"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love.\" \"What's the form?\" \"Very quiet and enjoyable.\" \"No paper games?\" \"Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours.\" \"Comfortable?\" \"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning.\" \"I've never met Brenda.\" \"You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world.\" \"Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there.\" \"I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train.\" \"Yes, but it's more pleasant by road.\" \"And cheaper.\" \"Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?\" Beaver rose to go. \"Yes, I think I will.\" \"Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please.\" Macdougal said, \"Shall I book them to you, sir?\" \"Yes, if you will.\" Later, at the bar, Jock said, \"I made Beaver pay for a drink.\" \"He can't have liked that.\" \"He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?\"<|quote|>\"No. Why.\"</|quote|>\"Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency.\" * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. \"Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day.\" \"Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?\" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils\" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels\" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic",
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Unknowable
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"Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency."
|
Jock Grant-Menzies
|
anything about pigs?" "No. Why."<|quote|>"Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency."</|quote|>* * * * *
|
nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why."<|quote|>"Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency."</|quote|>* * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before
|
will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why."<|quote|>"Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency."</|quote|>* * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her
|
wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why."<|quote|>"Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency."</|quote|>* * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages
|
quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why."<|quote|>"Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency."</|quote|>* * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity,
|
to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why."<|quote|>"Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency."</|quote|>* * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of
|
hold the line, sir, Mrs Tipping would like to speak to you." The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why."<|quote|>"Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency."</|quote|>* * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as "amusing", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase
|
the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why."<|quote|>"Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency."</|quote|>* * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose
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A Handful Of Dust
|
the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why."<|quote|>"Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency."</|quote|>* * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose
|
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"content": "the bar greeted him saying, \"Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?\" or, more simply, \"Well, old boy?\" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. \"Well, old boy,\" he said. \"What are you drinking?\" \"Nothing so far.\" Beaver looked at his watch. \"But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale.\" Jock called to the barman and then said: \"Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?\" \"She's called Mrs Tipping.\" \"I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her.\" \"Are you going?\" \"No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here.\" The barman came with the drinks. \"Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month.\" \"Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?\" \"Very good, sir.\" Beaver said, \"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow.\" \"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love.\" \"What's the form?\" \"Very quiet and enjoyable.\" \"No paper games?\" \"Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours.\" \"Comfortable?\" \"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning.\" \"I've never met Brenda.\" \"You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world.\" \"Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there.\" \"I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train.\" \"Yes, but it's more pleasant by road.\" \"And cheaper.\" \"Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?\" Beaver rose to go. \"Yes, I think I will.\" \"Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please.\" Macdougal said, \"Shall I book them to you, sir?\" \"Yes, if you will.\" Later, at the bar, Jock said, \"I made Beaver pay for a drink.\" \"He can't have liked that.\" \"He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?\" \"No. Why.\"<|quote|>\"Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency.\"</|quote|>* * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. \"Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day.\" \"Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?\" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils\" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels\" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose",
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Jock Grant-Menzies
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* * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him.
|
No speaker
|
about them from my constituency."<|quote|>* * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him.</|quote|>"Mrs Tipping rang up a
|
they keep writing to me about them from my constituency."<|quote|>* * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him.</|quote|>"Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked
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book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency."<|quote|>* * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him.</|quote|>"Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left
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afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency."<|quote|>* * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him.</|quote|>"Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and
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certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency."<|quote|>* * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him.</|quote|>"Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic
|
all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency."<|quote|>* * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him.</|quote|>"Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each
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The intervening silence was full of pleasant expectation. Mrs Tipping had a luncheon party that day, he knew; they had spent some time together the evening before and he had been particularly successful with her. Someone had chucked... "Oh, Mr Beaver, I _am_ so sorry to trouble you. I was wondering, could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency."<|quote|>* * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him.</|quote|>"Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as "amusing", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum",
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right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency."<|quote|>* * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him.</|quote|>"Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion
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A Handful Of Dust
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right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency."<|quote|>* * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him.</|quote|>"Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion
|
{
"messages": [
{
"content": "You are helpful",
"role": "system"
},
{
"content": "right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. \"Well, old boy,\" he said. \"What are you drinking?\" \"Nothing so far.\" Beaver looked at his watch. \"But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale.\" Jock called to the barman and then said: \"Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?\" \"She's called Mrs Tipping.\" \"I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her.\" \"Are you going?\" \"No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here.\" The barman came with the drinks. \"Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month.\" \"Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?\" \"Very good, sir.\" Beaver said, \"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow.\" \"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love.\" \"What's the form?\" \"Very quiet and enjoyable.\" \"No paper games?\" \"Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours.\" \"Comfortable?\" \"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning.\" \"I've never met Brenda.\" \"You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world.\" \"Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there.\" \"I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train.\" \"Yes, but it's more pleasant by road.\" \"And cheaper.\" \"Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?\" Beaver rose to go. \"Yes, I think I will.\" \"Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please.\" Macdougal said, \"Shall I book them to you, sir?\" \"Yes, if you will.\" Later, at the bar, Jock said, \"I made Beaver pay for a drink.\" \"He can't have liked that.\" \"He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?\" \"No. Why.\" \"Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency.\"<|quote|>* * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him.</|quote|>\"Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day.\" \"Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?\" It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils\" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels\" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion",
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No speaker
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"Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?"
|
John Beaver
|
to luncheon with her to-day."<|quote|>"Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?"</|quote|>It was just after half-past
|
asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day."<|quote|>"Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?"</|quote|>It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's
|
* * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day."<|quote|>"Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?"</|quote|>It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was
|
them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day."<|quote|>"Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?"</|quote|>It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from
|
men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day."<|quote|>"Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?"</|quote|>It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind,
|
it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day."<|quote|>"Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?"</|quote|>It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were
|
could you _possibly_ tell me the name of the young man you introduced to me last night at Madame de Trommet's? The one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day."<|quote|>"Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?"</|quote|>It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as "amusing", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her;
|
Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day."<|quote|>"Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?"</|quote|>It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put
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A Handful Of Dust
|
Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day."<|quote|>"Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?"</|quote|>It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put
|
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"content": "Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, \"Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?\" or, more simply, \"Well, old boy?\" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. \"Well, old boy,\" he said. \"What are you drinking?\" \"Nothing so far.\" Beaver looked at his watch. \"But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale.\" Jock called to the barman and then said: \"Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?\" \"She's called Mrs Tipping.\" \"I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her.\" \"Are you going?\" \"No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here.\" The barman came with the drinks. \"Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month.\" \"Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?\" \"Very good, sir.\" Beaver said, \"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow.\" \"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love.\" \"What's the form?\" \"Very quiet and enjoyable.\" \"No paper games?\" \"Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours.\" \"Comfortable?\" \"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning.\" \"I've never met Brenda.\" \"You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world.\" \"Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there.\" \"I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train.\" \"Yes, but it's more pleasant by road.\" \"And cheaper.\" \"Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?\" Beaver rose to go. \"Yes, I think I will.\" \"Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please.\" Macdougal said, \"Shall I book them to you, sir?\" \"Yes, if you will.\" Later, at the bar, Jock said, \"I made Beaver pay for a drink.\" \"He can't have liked that.\" \"He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?\" \"No. Why.\" \"Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency.\" * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. \"Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day.\"<|quote|>\"Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?\"</|quote|>It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils\" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put",
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"content": "John Beaver",
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John Beaver
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It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as "amusing", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell.
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No speaker
|
be a few minutes late?"<|quote|>It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as "amusing", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell.</|quote|>"Has her ladyship been called
|
to, but that I may be a few minutes late?"<|quote|>It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as "amusing", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell.</|quote|>"Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of
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and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?"<|quote|>It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as "amusing", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell.</|quote|>"Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her
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can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?"<|quote|>It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as "amusing", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell.</|quote|>"Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at
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the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?"<|quote|>It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as "amusing", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell.</|quote|>"Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for
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you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?"<|quote|>It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as "amusing", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell.</|quote|>"Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of
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one with the reddish moustache. I think he was in Parliament." "I expect you mean Jock Grant-Menzies." "Yes, that's the name. You don't by any chance know where I can find him, do you?" "He's in the book but I don't suppose he'll be at home now. You might be able to get him at Bratt's at about one. He's almost always there." "Jock Grant-Menzies, Bratt's Club. Thank you so _very_ much. It _is_ kind of you. I hope you will come and see me some day. _Good_-bye." After that the telephone was silent. At one o'clock Beaver despaired. He put on his overcoat, his gloves, his bowler hat and with neatly rolled umbrella set off to his club, taking a penny bus as far as the corner of Bond Street. * * * * * The air of antiquity pervading Bratt's, derived from its elegant Georgian fa?ade, and finely panelled rooms, was entirely spurious, for it was a club of recent origin, founded in the burst of bonhomie immediately after the war. It was intended for young men, to be a place where they could straddle across the fire and be jolly in the card-room without incurring scowls from older members. But now these founders were themselves passing into middle age; they were heavier, balder and redder in the face than when they had been demobilized, but their joviality persisted and it was their turn now to embarrass their successors, deploring their lack of manly and gentlemanly qualities. Six broad backs shut Beaver from the bar. He settled in one of the armchairs in the outer room and turned over the pages of the _New Yorker_, waiting until someone he knew should turn up. Jock Grant-Menzies came upstairs. The men at the bar greeted him saying, "Hullo, Jock old boy, what are you drinking?" or, more simply, "Well, old boy?" He was too young to have fought in the war but these men thought he was all right; they liked him far more than they did Beaver, who, they thought, ought never to have got into the club at all. But Jock stopped to talk to Beaver. "Well, old boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?"<|quote|>It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as "amusing", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell.</|quote|>"Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace... that play we went to about a farm is coming off." Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. "I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't Sylvia want Rupert to get the letter?" "Eh? Oh well, you see, she doesn't really trust Rupert." "I _knew_ it. There's no such character as Rupert in the story. I shall never read to you again." "Well, to tell you the truth I was just thinking." "Oh." "I was thinking how delightful it is, that it's Saturday morning and we haven't got anyone coming for the week-end." "Oh, you thought that?" "Don't you?" "Well, it sometimes seems to me rather pointless keeping up a house this size if we don't now and then ask some other people to stay in it." "_Pointless?_ I can't think what you mean. I don't keep up this house to be a hostel for a lot of bores to come and gossip in. We've always lived here and I hope John will be able to keep it on after me. One has a duty towards one's employees, and towards the place too. It's a definite part of English life which would be a serious loss if..." Then Tony stopped short in his speech and looked at the bed. Brenda had turned on her face and only the top of her head appeared above the sheets. "Oh God," she said into the pillow. "What have I done?" "I say, am I being pompous again?" She turned sideways so that her nose and one eye emerged. "Oh no, darling, not _pompous_. You wouldn't know how." "Sorry." Brenda sat up. "And, please, I didn't mean it. I'm jolly glad too, that no one's coming." (These scenes of domestic playfulness had been more or less continuous in Tony and Brenda's life for seven years.) Outside, it was soft English weather; mist in the hollows and pale sunshine on the hills; the coverts had ceased dripping, for there were no leaves to hold the recent rain, but the undergrowth was wet, dark in the shadows, iridescent where the sun caught it; the lanes were soggy and there was water running in the ditches. John
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boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?"<|quote|>It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as "amusing", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell.</|quote|>"Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace... that play we went to about a farm is coming off." Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. "I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't Sylvia want Rupert to get the letter?" "Eh?
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
boy," he said. "What are you drinking?" "Nothing so far." Beaver looked at his watch. "But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale." Jock called to the barman and then said: "Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?" "She's called Mrs Tipping." "I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her." "Are you going?" "No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here." The barman came with the drinks. "Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month." "Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?" "Very good, sir." Beaver said, "I'm going to Hetton to-morrow." "Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love." "What's the form?" "Very quiet and enjoyable." "No paper games?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours." "Comfortable?" "Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning." "I've never met Brenda." "You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world." "Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there." "I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train." "Yes, but it's more pleasant by road." "And cheaper." "Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?" Beaver rose to go. "Yes, I think I will." "Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please." Macdougal said, "Shall I book them to you, sir?" "Yes, if you will." Later, at the bar, Jock said, "I made Beaver pay for a drink." "He can't have liked that." "He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?" "No. Why." "Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency." * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. "Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day." "Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?"<|quote|>It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as "amusing", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell.</|quote|>"Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace... that play we went to about a farm is coming off." Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. "I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't Sylvia want Rupert to get the letter?" "Eh?
|
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"content": "boy,\" he said. \"What are you drinking?\" \"Nothing so far.\" Beaver looked at his watch. \"But I think it's time I had one. Brandy and ginger ale.\" Jock called to the barman and then said: \"Who was the old girl you wished on me at that party last night?\" \"She's called Mrs Tipping.\" \"I thought she might be. That explains it. They gave me a message downstairs that someone with a name like that wanted me to lunch with her.\" \"Are you going?\" \"No, I'm no good at lunch parties. Besides, I decided when I got up that I'd have oysters here.\" The barman came with the drinks. \"Mr Beaver, sir, there's ten shillings against you in my books for last month.\" \"Ah, thank you, Macdougal, remind me some time, will you?\" \"Very good, sir.\" Beaver said, \"I'm going to Hetton to-morrow.\" \"Are you now? Give Tony and Brenda my love.\" \"What's the form?\" \"Very quiet and enjoyable.\" \"No paper games?\" \"Oh, no, nothing like that. A certain amount of bridge and backgammon and low poker with the neighbours.\" \"Comfortable?\" \"Not bad. Plenty to drink. Rather a shortage of bathrooms. You can stay in bed all the morning.\" \"I've never met Brenda.\" \"You'll like her, she's a grand girl. I often think Tony Last's one of the happiest men I know. He's got just enough money, loves the place, one son he's crazy about, devoted wife, not a worry in the world.\" \"Most enviable. You don't know anyone else who's going, do you? I was wondering if I could get a lift down there.\" \"I don't, I'm afraid. It's quite easy by train.\" \"Yes, but it's more pleasant by road.\" \"And cheaper.\" \"Yes, and cheaper I suppose... well, I'm going down to lunch. You won't have another?\" Beaver rose to go. \"Yes, I think I will.\" \"Oh, all right. Macdougal. Two more, please.\" Macdougal said, \"Shall I book them to you, sir?\" \"Yes, if you will.\" Later, at the bar, Jock said, \"I made Beaver pay for a drink.\" \"He can't have liked that.\" \"He nearly died of it. Know anything about pigs?\" \"No. Why.\" \"Only that they keep writing to me about them from my constituency.\" * * * * * Beaver went downstairs but before going into the dining-room he told the porter to ring up his home and see if there was any message for him. \"Mrs Tipping rang up a few minutes ago and asked whether you could come to luncheon with her to-day.\" \"Will you ring her up and say that I shall be delighted to, but that I may be a few minutes late?\"<|quote|>It was just after half-past one when he left Bratt's and walked at a good pace towards Hill Street. CHAPTER II ENGLISH GOTHIC [I] _Between the villages of Hetton and Compton Last lies the extensive park of Hetton Abbey. This, formerly one of the notable houses of the county, was entirely rebuilt in 1864 in the Gothic style and is now devoid of interest. The grounds are open to the public daily until sunset and the house may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils\" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels\" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as \"amusing\", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called \"the Museum\", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell.</|quote|>\"Has her ladyship been called yet?\" \"About a quarter of an hour ago, sir.\" \"Then I'll have breakfast in her room.\" He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. \"Well?\" said Tony. \"Kiss.\" He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. \"Anything interesting?\" He picked up some of the letters. \"No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?\" \"I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time.\" \"Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?\" \"That's easy. Not on her life, we won't.\" \"I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party.\" \"You go if you like. I can't possibly get away.\" \"That's all right. I knew it would be \"no\" before I opened the letter.\" \"Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?\" \"Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit.\" Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, \"As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end.\" \"Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?\" \"I daresay not.\" While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. \"Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace... that play we went to about a farm is coming off.\" Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. \"I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't Sylvia want Rupert to get the letter?\" \"Eh?",
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No speaker
|
"Has her ladyship been called yet?"
|
Tony Last
|
Then he rang the bell.<|quote|>"Has her ladyship been called yet?"</|quote|>"About a quarter of an
|
the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell.<|quote|>"Has her ladyship been called yet?"</|quote|>"About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll
|
at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell.<|quote|>"Has her ladyship been called yet?"</|quote|>"About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with
|
diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell.<|quote|>"Has her ladyship been called yet?"</|quote|>"About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she
|
calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell.<|quote|>"Has her ladyship been called yet?"</|quote|>"About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to
|
was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as "amusing", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell.<|quote|>"Has her ladyship been called yet?"</|quote|>"About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in
|
may be viewed on application by writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as "amusing", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell.<|quote|>"Has her ladyship been called yet?"</|quote|>"About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace... that play we went to about a farm is coming off." Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. "I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't Sylvia want Rupert to get the letter?" "Eh? Oh well, you see, she doesn't really trust Rupert." "I _knew_ it. There's no such character as Rupert in the story. I shall never read to you again." "Well, to tell you the truth I was just thinking." "Oh." "I was thinking how delightful it is, that it's Saturday morning and we haven't got anyone coming for the week-end." "Oh, you thought that?" "Don't you?" "Well, it sometimes seems to me rather pointless keeping up a house this size if we don't now and then ask some other people to stay in it." "_Pointless?_ I can't think what you mean. I don't keep up this house to be a hostel for a lot of bores to come and gossip in. We've always lived here and I hope John will be able to keep it on after me. One has a duty towards one's employees, and towards the place too. It's a definite part of English life which would be a serious loss if..." Then Tony stopped short in his speech and looked at the bed. Brenda had turned on her face and only the top of her head appeared above the sheets. "Oh God," she said into the pillow. "What have I done?" "I say, am I being pompous again?" She turned sideways so that her nose and one eye emerged. "Oh no, darling, not _pompous_. You wouldn't know how." "Sorry." Brenda sat up. "And, please, I didn't mean it. I'm jolly glad too, that no one's coming." (These scenes of domestic playfulness had been more or less continuous in Tony and Brenda's life for seven years.) Outside, it was soft English weather; mist in the hollows and pale sunshine on the hills; the coverts had ceased dripping, for there were no leaves to hold the recent rain, but the undergrowth was wet, dark in the shadows, iridescent where the sun caught it; the lanes were soggy and there was water running in the ditches. John Andrew sat his pony, solemn and
|
in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as "amusing", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell.<|quote|>"Has her ladyship been called yet?"</|quote|>"About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as "amusing", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell.<|quote|>"Has her ladyship been called yet?"</|quote|>"About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that
|
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"content": "in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as \"amusing\", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called \"the Museum\", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell.<|quote|>\"Has her ladyship been called yet?\"</|quote|>\"About a quarter of an hour ago, sir.\" \"Then I'll have breakfast in her room.\" He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. \"Well?\" said Tony. \"Kiss.\" He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. \"Anything interesting?\" He picked up some of the letters. \"No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?\" \"I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time.\" \"Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?\" \"That's easy. Not on her life, we won't.\" \"I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party.\" \"You go if you like. I can't possibly get away.\" \"That's all right. I knew it would be \"no\" before I opened the letter.\" \"Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?\" \"Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit.\" Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that",
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Tony Last
|
"About a quarter of an hour ago, sir."
|
No speaker
|
her ladyship been called yet?"<|quote|>"About a quarter of an hour ago, sir."</|quote|>"Then I'll have breakfast in
|
he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?"<|quote|>"About a quarter of an hour ago, sir."</|quote|>"Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on
|
Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?"<|quote|>"About a quarter of an hour ago, sir."</|quote|>"Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head
|
bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?"<|quote|>"About a quarter of an hour ago, sir."</|quote|>"Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from
|
in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?"<|quote|>"About a quarter of an hour ago, sir."</|quote|>"Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we
|
time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as "amusing", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?"<|quote|>"About a quarter of an hour ago, sir."</|quote|>"Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands.
|
writing. It contains some good portraits and furniture. The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as "amusing", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?"<|quote|>"About a quarter of an hour ago, sir."</|quote|>"Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace... that play we went to about a farm is coming off." Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. "I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't Sylvia want Rupert to get the letter?" "Eh? Oh well, you see, she doesn't really trust Rupert." "I _knew_ it. There's no such character as Rupert in the story. I shall never read to you again." "Well, to tell you the truth I was just thinking." "Oh." "I was thinking how delightful it is, that it's Saturday morning and we haven't got anyone coming for the week-end." "Oh, you thought that?" "Don't you?" "Well, it sometimes seems to me rather pointless keeping up a house this size if we don't now and then ask some other people to stay in it." "_Pointless?_ I can't think what you mean. I don't keep up this house to be a hostel for a lot of bores to come and gossip in. We've always lived here and I hope John will be able to keep it on after me. One has a duty towards one's employees, and towards the place too. It's a definite part of English life which would be a serious loss if..." Then Tony stopped short in his speech and looked at the bed. Brenda had turned on her face and only the top of her head appeared above the sheets. "Oh God," she said into the pillow. "What have I done?" "I say, am I being pompous again?" She turned sideways so that her nose and one eye emerged. "Oh no, darling, not _pompous_. You wouldn't know how." "Sorry." Brenda sat up. "And, please, I didn't mean it. I'm jolly glad too, that no one's coming." (These scenes of domestic playfulness had been more or less continuous in Tony and Brenda's life for seven years.) Outside, it was soft English weather; mist in the hollows and pale sunshine on the hills; the coverts had ceased dripping, for there were no leaves to hold the recent rain, but the undergrowth was wet, dark in the shadows, iridescent where the sun caught it; the lanes were soggy and there was water running in the ditches. John Andrew sat his pony, solemn and stiff as a Lifeguard, while Ben fixed the
|
off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as "amusing", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?"<|quote|>"About a quarter of an hour ago, sir."</|quote|>"Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace... that play we went to about a farm is coming off." Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. "I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't Sylvia want Rupert to get the letter?" "Eh? Oh well, you see, she doesn't really trust Rupert." "I _knew_ it. There's no such character as Rupert in the story. I shall never read to you again." "Well, to tell you the truth I was just thinking." "Oh." "I was thinking how delightful it is, that it's Saturday morning and we haven't got anyone coming for the week-end." "Oh, you thought that?" "Don't you?"
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as "amusing", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?"<|quote|>"About a quarter of an hour ago, sir."</|quote|>"Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace... that play we went to about a farm is coming off." Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. "I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't Sylvia want Rupert to get the letter?" "Eh? Oh well, you see, she doesn't really trust Rupert." "I _knew_ it. There's no such character as Rupert in the story. I shall never read to you again." "Well, to tell you the truth I was just thinking." "Oh." "I was thinking how delightful it is, that it's Saturday morning and we haven't got anyone coming for the week-end." "Oh, you thought that?" "Don't you?"
|
{
"messages": [
{
"content": "You are helpful",
"role": "system"
},
{
"content": "off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels\" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as \"amusing\", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called \"the Museum\", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. \"Has her ladyship been called yet?\"<|quote|>\"About a quarter of an hour ago, sir.\"</|quote|>\"Then I'll have breakfast in her room.\" He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. \"Well?\" said Tony. \"Kiss.\" He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. \"Anything interesting?\" He picked up some of the letters. \"No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?\" \"I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time.\" \"Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?\" \"That's easy. Not on her life, we won't.\" \"I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party.\" \"You go if you like. I can't possibly get away.\" \"That's all right. I knew it would be \"no\" before I opened the letter.\" \"Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?\" \"Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit.\" Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, \"As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end.\" \"Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?\" \"I daresay not.\" While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. \"Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace... that play we went to about a farm is coming off.\" Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. \"I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't Sylvia want Rupert to get the letter?\" \"Eh? Oh well, you see, she doesn't really trust Rupert.\" \"I _knew_ it. There's no such character as Rupert in the story. I shall never read to you again.\" \"Well, to tell you the truth I was just thinking.\" \"Oh.\" \"I was thinking how delightful it is, that it's Saturday morning and we haven't got anyone coming for the week-end.\" \"Oh, you thought that?\" \"Don't you?\"",
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No speaker
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"Then I'll have breakfast in her room."
|
Tony Last
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of an hour ago, sir."<|quote|>"Then I'll have breakfast in her room."</|quote|>He put on his dressing-gown
|
called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir."<|quote|>"Then I'll have breakfast in her room."</|quote|>He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through
|
_Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir."<|quote|>"Then I'll have breakfast in her room."</|quote|>He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue
|
he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir."<|quote|>"Then I'll have breakfast in her room."</|quote|>He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned
|
life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir."<|quote|>"Then I'll have breakfast in her room."</|quote|>He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy.
|
when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as "amusing", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir."<|quote|>"Then I'll have breakfast in her room."</|quote|>He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two
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The terrace commands a fine view._ This passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as "amusing", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir."<|quote|>"Then I'll have breakfast in her room."</|quote|>He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace... that play we went to about a farm is coming off." Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. "I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't Sylvia want Rupert to get the letter?" "Eh? Oh well, you see, she doesn't really trust Rupert." "I _knew_ it. There's no such character as Rupert in the story. I shall never read to you again." "Well, to tell you the truth I was just thinking." "Oh." "I was thinking how delightful it is, that it's Saturday morning and we haven't got anyone coming for the week-end." "Oh, you thought that?" "Don't you?" "Well, it sometimes seems to me rather pointless keeping up a house this size if we don't now and then ask some other people to stay in it." "_Pointless?_ I can't think what you mean. I don't keep up this house to be a hostel for a lot of bores to come and gossip in. We've always lived here and I hope John will be able to keep it on after me. One has a duty towards one's employees, and towards the place too. It's a definite part of English life which would be a serious loss if..." Then Tony stopped short in his speech and looked at the bed. Brenda had turned on her face and only the top of her head appeared above the sheets. "Oh God," she said into the pillow. "What have I done?" "I say, am I being pompous again?" She turned sideways so that her nose and one eye emerged. "Oh no, darling, not _pompous_. You wouldn't know how." "Sorry." Brenda sat up. "And, please, I didn't mean it. I'm jolly glad too, that no one's coming." (These scenes of domestic playfulness had been more or less continuous in Tony and Brenda's life for seven years.) Outside, it was soft English weather; mist in the hollows and pale sunshine on the hills; the coverts had ceased dripping, for there were no leaves to hold the recent rain, but the undergrowth was wet, dark in the shadows, iridescent where the sun caught it; the lanes were soggy and there was water running in the ditches. John Andrew sat his pony, solemn and stiff as a Lifeguard, while Ben fixed the jump. Thunderclap had been a present on
|
there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir."<|quote|>"Then I'll have breakfast in her room."</|quote|>He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been
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A Handful Of Dust
|
there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir."<|quote|>"Then I'll have breakfast in her room."</|quote|>He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been
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"content": "there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called \"the Museum\", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. \"Has her ladyship been called yet?\" \"About a quarter of an hour ago, sir.\"<|quote|>\"Then I'll have breakfast in her room.\"</|quote|>He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. \"Well?\" said Tony. \"Kiss.\" He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. \"Anything interesting?\" He picked up some of the letters. \"No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?\" \"I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time.\" \"Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?\" \"That's easy. Not on her life, we won't.\" \"I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party.\" \"You go if you like. I can't possibly get away.\" \"That's all right. I knew it would be \"no\" before I opened the letter.\" \"Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?\" \"Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit.\" Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, \"As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end.\" \"Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?\" \"I daresay not.\" While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. \"Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been",
"role": "user"
},
{
"content": "Tony Last",
"role": "assistant"
}
]
}
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Tony Last
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He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck.
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No speaker
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have breakfast in her room."<|quote|>He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck.</|quote|>"Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He
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hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room."<|quote|>He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck.</|quote|>"Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at
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* All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room."<|quote|>He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck.</|quote|>"Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?"
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to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room."<|quote|>He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck.</|quote|>"Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well,
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had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room."<|quote|>He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck.</|quote|>"Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm
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proper place. Already it was referred to as "amusing", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room."<|quote|>He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck.</|quote|>"Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace... that play we went to about a farm is coming off." Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. "I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't Sylvia want Rupert to get the letter?" "Eh? Oh well, you see, she doesn't really trust Rupert." "I _knew_ it. There's no such character
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passage from the county Guide Book did not cause Tony Last any serious annoyance. Unkinder things had been said. His Aunt Frances, embittered by an upbringing of unremitting severity, remarked that the plans of the house must have been adapted by Mr Pecksniff from one of his pupils" designs for an orphanage. But there was not a glazed brick or encaustic tile that was not dear to Tony's heart. In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as "amusing", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room."<|quote|>He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck.</|quote|>"Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace... that play we went to about a farm is coming off." Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. "I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't Sylvia want Rupert to get the letter?" "Eh? Oh well, you see, she doesn't really trust Rupert." "I _knew_ it. There's no such character as Rupert in the story. I shall never read to you again." "Well, to tell you the truth I was just thinking." "Oh." "I was thinking how delightful it is, that it's Saturday morning and we haven't got anyone coming for the week-end." "Oh, you thought that?" "Don't you?" "Well, it sometimes seems to me rather pointless keeping up a house this size if we don't now and then ask some other people to stay in it." "_Pointless?_ I can't think what you mean. I don't keep up this house to be a hostel for a lot of bores to come and gossip in. We've always lived here and I hope John will be able to keep it on after me. One has a duty towards one's employees, and towards the place too. It's a definite part of English life which would be a serious loss if..." Then Tony stopped short in his speech and looked at the bed. Brenda had turned on her face and only the top of her head appeared above the sheets. "Oh God," she said into the pillow. "What have I done?" "I say, am I being pompous again?" She turned sideways so that her nose and one eye emerged. "Oh no, darling, not _pompous_. You wouldn't know how." "Sorry." Brenda sat up. "And, please, I didn't mean it. I'm jolly glad too, that no one's coming." (These scenes of domestic playfulness had been more or less continuous in Tony and Brenda's life for seven years.) Outside, it was soft English weather; mist in the hollows and pale sunshine on the hills; the coverts had ceased dripping, for there were no leaves to hold the recent rain, but the undergrowth was wet, dark in the shadows, iridescent where the sun caught it; the lanes were soggy and there was water running in the ditches. John Andrew sat his pony, solemn and stiff as a Lifeguard, while Ben fixed the jump. Thunderclap had been a present on his sixth birthday from Uncle Reggie. It was John who had named her, after lengthy consultation. Originally she had been called Christabelle which, as Ben said, was more the name for a hound than a horse. Ben had known a strawberry roan called Thunderclap who killed two riders and won the local point-to-point four years running. He had been a lovely little horse, said Ben, till he staked himself
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to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as "amusing", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room."<|quote|>He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck.</|quote|>"Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace... that play we went to about a farm is coming off." Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. "I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't Sylvia want Rupert to get the letter?" "Eh? Oh well, you see, she doesn't really trust Rupert." "I _knew_ it. There's no such character as Rupert in the story. I shall never read to you again." "Well, to tell you the truth I was just thinking." "Oh." "I was thinking how delightful it is, that it's Saturday morning and we haven't got anyone coming for the week-end." "Oh, you thought that?" "Don't you?" "Well, it sometimes seems to me rather pointless keeping up a house this size if we don't now and then ask some other people to stay in it." "_Pointless?_ I can't think what you mean. I don't keep up this house to be a hostel for a lot of bores to come and gossip in. We've always lived here and I hope John will be able to keep it on after me. One has a duty towards one's employees, and towards the place too. It's a definite part of English
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A Handful Of Dust
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to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as "amusing", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room."<|quote|>He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck.</|quote|>"Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace... that play we went to about a farm is coming off." Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. "I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't Sylvia want Rupert to get the letter?" "Eh? Oh well, you see, she doesn't really trust Rupert." "I _knew_ it. There's no such character as Rupert in the story. I shall never read to you again." "Well, to tell you the truth I was just thinking." "Oh." "I was thinking how delightful it is, that it's Saturday morning and we haven't got anyone coming for the week-end." "Oh, you thought that?" "Don't you?" "Well, it sometimes seems to me rather pointless keeping up a house this size if we don't now and then ask some other people to stay in it." "_Pointless?_ I can't think what you mean. I don't keep up this house to be a hostel for a lot of bores to come and gossip in. We've always lived here and I hope John will be able to keep it on after me. One has a duty towards one's employees, and towards the place too. It's a definite part of English
|
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"content": "to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as \"amusing\", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called \"the Museum\", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. \"Has her ladyship been called yet?\" \"About a quarter of an hour ago, sir.\" \"Then I'll have breakfast in her room.\"<|quote|>He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck.</|quote|>\"Well?\" said Tony. \"Kiss.\" He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. \"Anything interesting?\" He picked up some of the letters. \"No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?\" \"I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time.\" \"Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?\" \"That's easy. Not on her life, we won't.\" \"I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party.\" \"You go if you like. I can't possibly get away.\" \"That's all right. I knew it would be \"no\" before I opened the letter.\" \"Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?\" \"Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit.\" Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, \"As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end.\" \"Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?\" \"I daresay not.\" While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. \"Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace... that play we went to about a farm is coming off.\" Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. \"I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't Sylvia want Rupert to get the letter?\" \"Eh? Oh well, you see, she doesn't really trust Rupert.\" \"I _knew_ it. There's no such character as Rupert in the story. I shall never read to you again.\" \"Well, to tell you the truth I was just thinking.\" \"Oh.\" \"I was thinking how delightful it is, that it's Saturday morning and we haven't got anyone coming for the week-end.\" \"Oh, you thought that?\" \"Don't you?\" \"Well, it sometimes seems to me rather pointless keeping up a house this size if we don't now and then ask some other people to stay in it.\" \"_Pointless?_ I can't think what you mean. I don't keep up this house to be a hostel for a lot of bores to come and gossip in. We've always lived here and I hope John will be able to keep it on after me. One has a duty towards one's employees, and towards the place too. It's a definite part of English",
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No speaker
|
"Well?"
|
Tony Last
|
than her arms and neck.<|quote|>"Well?"</|quote|>said Tony. "Kiss." He sat
|
rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck.<|quote|>"Well?"</|quote|>said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the
|
insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck.<|quote|>"Well?"</|quote|>said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He
|
the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck.<|quote|>"Well?"</|quote|>said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you
|
hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck.<|quote|>"Well?"</|quote|>said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not
|
gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck.<|quote|>"Well?"</|quote|>said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace... that play we went to about a farm is coming off." Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. "I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't Sylvia want Rupert to get the letter?" "Eh? Oh well, you see, she doesn't really trust Rupert." "I _knew_ it. There's no such character as
|
In some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as "amusing", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck.<|quote|>"Well?"</|quote|>said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace... that play we went to about a farm is coming off." Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. "I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't Sylvia want Rupert to get the letter?" "Eh? Oh well, you see, she doesn't really trust Rupert." "I _knew_ it. There's no such character as Rupert in the story. I shall never read to you again." "Well, to tell you the truth I was just thinking." "Oh." "I was thinking how delightful it is, that it's Saturday morning and we haven't got anyone coming for the week-end." "Oh, you thought that?" "Don't you?" "Well, it sometimes seems to me rather pointless keeping up a house this size if we don't now and then ask some other people to stay in it." "_Pointless?_ I can't think what you mean. I don't keep up this house to be a hostel for a lot of bores to come and gossip in. We've always lived here and I hope John will be able to keep it on after me. One has a duty towards one's employees, and towards the place too. It's a definite part of English life which would be a serious loss if..." Then Tony stopped short in his speech and looked at the bed. Brenda had turned on her face and only the top of her head appeared above the sheets. "Oh God," she said into the pillow. "What have I done?" "I say, am I being pompous again?" She turned sideways so that her nose and one eye emerged. "Oh no, darling, not _pompous_. You wouldn't know how." "Sorry." Brenda sat up. "And, please, I didn't mean it. I'm jolly glad too, that no one's coming." (These scenes of domestic playfulness had been more or less continuous in Tony and Brenda's life for seven years.) Outside, it was soft English weather; mist in the hollows and pale sunshine on the hills; the coverts had ceased dripping, for there were no leaves to hold the recent rain, but the undergrowth was wet, dark in the shadows, iridescent where the sun caught it; the lanes were soggy and there was water running in the ditches. John Andrew sat his pony, solemn and stiff as a Lifeguard, while Ben fixed the jump. Thunderclap had been a present on his sixth birthday from Uncle Reggie. It was John who had named her, after lengthy consultation. Originally she had been called Christabelle which, as Ben said, was more the name for a hound than a horse. Ben had known a strawberry roan called Thunderclap who killed two riders and won the local point-to-point four years running. He had been a lovely little horse, said Ben, till he staked himself in
|
since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck.<|quote|>"Well?"</|quote|>said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little
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A Handful Of Dust
|
since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck.<|quote|>"Well?"</|quote|>said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little
|
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"content": "You are helpful",
"role": "system"
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"content": "since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called \"the Museum\", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. \"Has her ladyship been called yet?\" \"About a quarter of an hour ago, sir.\" \"Then I'll have breakfast in her room.\" He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck.<|quote|>\"Well?\"</|quote|>said Tony. \"Kiss.\" He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. \"Anything interesting?\" He picked up some of the letters. \"No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?\" \"I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time.\" \"Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?\" \"That's easy. Not on her life, we won't.\" \"I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party.\" \"You go if you like. I can't possibly get away.\" \"That's all right. I knew it would be \"no\" before I opened the letter.\" \"Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?\" \"Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit.\" Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, \"As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end.\" \"Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?\" \"I daresay not.\" While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. \"Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little",
"role": "user"
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"content": "Tony Last",
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}
|
Tony Last
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said Tony.
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No speaker
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her arms and neck. "Well?"<|quote|>said Tony.</|quote|>"Kiss." He sat by the
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scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?"<|quote|>said Tony.</|quote|>"Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of
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on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?"<|quote|>said Tony.</|quote|>"Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up
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renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?"<|quote|>said Tony.</|quote|>"Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write
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eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?"<|quote|>said Tony.</|quote|>"Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a
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The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?"<|quote|>said Tony.</|quote|>"Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace... that play we went to about a farm is coming off." Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. "I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't Sylvia want Rupert to get the letter?" "Eh? Oh well, you see, she doesn't really trust Rupert." "I _knew_ it. There's no such character as Rupert in
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some ways, he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as "amusing", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?"<|quote|>said Tony.</|quote|>"Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace... that play we went to about a farm is coming off." Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. "I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't Sylvia want Rupert to get the letter?" "Eh? Oh well, you see, she doesn't really trust Rupert." "I _knew_ it. There's no such character as Rupert in the story. I shall never read to you again." "Well, to tell you the truth I was just thinking." "Oh." "I was thinking how delightful it is, that it's Saturday morning and we haven't got anyone coming for the week-end." "Oh, you thought that?" "Don't you?" "Well, it sometimes seems to me rather pointless keeping up a house this size if we don't now and then ask some other people to stay in it." "_Pointless?_ I can't think what you mean. I don't keep up this house to be a hostel for a lot of bores to come and gossip in. We've always lived here and I hope John will be able to keep it on after me. One has a duty towards one's employees, and towards the place too. It's a definite part of English life which would be a serious loss if..." Then Tony stopped short in his speech and looked at the bed. Brenda had turned on her face and only the top of her head appeared above the sheets. "Oh God," she said into the pillow. "What have I done?" "I say, am I being pompous again?" She turned sideways so that her nose and one eye emerged. "Oh no, darling, not _pompous_. You wouldn't know how." "Sorry." Brenda sat up. "And, please, I didn't mean it. I'm jolly glad too, that no one's coming." (These scenes of domestic playfulness had been more or less continuous in Tony and Brenda's life for seven years.) Outside, it was soft English weather; mist in the hollows and pale sunshine on the hills; the coverts had ceased dripping, for there were no leaves to hold the recent rain, but the undergrowth was wet, dark in the shadows, iridescent where the sun caught it; the lanes were soggy and there was water running in the ditches. John Andrew sat his pony, solemn and stiff as a Lifeguard, while Ben fixed the jump. Thunderclap had been a present on his sixth birthday from Uncle Reggie. It was John who had named her, after lengthy consultation. Originally she had been called Christabelle which, as Ben said, was more the name for a hound than a horse. Ben had known a strawberry roan called Thunderclap who killed two riders and won the local point-to-point four years running. He had been a lovely little horse, said Ben, till he staked himself in the guts,
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have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?"<|quote|>said Tony.</|quote|>"Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace... that play we went to about a farm is coming off." Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. "I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't
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A Handful Of Dust
|
have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?"<|quote|>said Tony.</|quote|>"Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace... that play we went to about a farm is coming off." Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. "I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't
|
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"content": "have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called \"the Museum\", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. \"Has her ladyship been called yet?\" \"About a quarter of an hour ago, sir.\" \"Then I'll have breakfast in her room.\" He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. \"Well?\"<|quote|>said Tony.</|quote|>\"Kiss.\" He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. \"Anything interesting?\" He picked up some of the letters. \"No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?\" \"I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time.\" \"Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?\" \"That's easy. Not on her life, we won't.\" \"I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party.\" \"You go if you like. I can't possibly get away.\" \"That's all right. I knew it would be \"no\" before I opened the letter.\" \"Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?\" \"Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit.\" Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, \"As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end.\" \"Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?\" \"I daresay not.\" While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. \"Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace... that play we went to about a farm is coming off.\" Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. \"I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't",
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No speaker
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"Kiss."
|
Brenda
|
and neck. "Well?" said Tony.<|quote|>"Kiss."</|quote|>He sat by the tray
|
in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony.<|quote|>"Kiss."</|quote|>He sat by the tray at the head of the
|
modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony.<|quote|>"Kiss."</|quote|>He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some
|
his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony.<|quote|>"Kiss."</|quote|>He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the
|
fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony.<|quote|>"Kiss."</|quote|>He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing
|
between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony.<|quote|>"Kiss."</|quote|>He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace... that play we went to about a farm is coming off." Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. "I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't Sylvia want Rupert to get the letter?" "Eh? Oh well, you see, she doesn't really trust Rupert." "I _knew_ it. There's no such character as Rupert in the
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he knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as "amusing", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony.<|quote|>"Kiss."</|quote|>He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace... that play we went to about a farm is coming off." Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. "I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't Sylvia want Rupert to get the letter?" "Eh? Oh well, you see, she doesn't really trust Rupert." "I _knew_ it. There's no such character as Rupert in the story. I shall never read to you again." "Well, to tell you the truth I was just thinking." "Oh." "I was thinking how delightful it is, that it's Saturday morning and we haven't got anyone coming for the week-end." "Oh, you thought that?" "Don't you?" "Well, it sometimes seems to me rather pointless keeping up a house this size if we don't now and then ask some other people to stay in it." "_Pointless?_ I can't think what you mean. I don't keep up this house to be a hostel for a lot of bores to come and gossip in. We've always lived here and I hope John will be able to keep it on after me. One has a duty towards one's employees, and towards the place too. It's a definite part of English life which would be a serious loss if..." Then Tony stopped short in his speech and looked at the bed. Brenda had turned on her face and only the top of her head appeared above the sheets. "Oh God," she said into the pillow. "What have I done?" "I say, am I being pompous again?" She turned sideways so that her nose and one eye emerged. "Oh no, darling, not _pompous_. You wouldn't know how." "Sorry." Brenda sat up. "And, please, I didn't mean it. I'm jolly glad too, that no one's coming." (These scenes of domestic playfulness had been more or less continuous in Tony and Brenda's life for seven years.) Outside, it was soft English weather; mist in the hollows and pale sunshine on the hills; the coverts had ceased dripping, for there were no leaves to hold the recent rain, but the undergrowth was wet, dark in the shadows, iridescent where the sun caught it; the lanes were soggy and there was water running in the ditches. John Andrew sat his pony, solemn and stiff as a Lifeguard, while Ben fixed the jump. Thunderclap had been a present on his sixth birthday from Uncle Reggie. It was John who had named her, after lengthy consultation. Originally she had been called Christabelle which, as Ben said, was more the name for a hound than a horse. Ben had known a strawberry roan called Thunderclap who killed two riders and won the local point-to-point four years running. He had been a lovely little horse, said Ben, till he staked himself in the guts, hunting,
|
capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony.<|quote|>"Kiss."</|quote|>He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace... that play we went to about a farm is coming off." Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. "I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't Sylvia want Rupert to get the letter?" "Eh? Oh well, you see, she doesn't really trust Rupert." "I _knew_ it. There's no such character as Rupert in the story. I shall never read to you again." "Well, to tell you the truth I was just thinking." "Oh." "I was thinking how delightful it is, that it's Saturday morning and we haven't got anyone coming for the week-end." "Oh, you thought that?" "Don't you?" "Well, it sometimes seems to me rather pointless keeping up a house this size if we don't now and then ask some other people to stay in it." "_Pointless?_ I can't think what you mean. I don't keep up this house to be a hostel for a lot
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A Handful Of Dust
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capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony.<|quote|>"Kiss."</|quote|>He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace... that play we went to about a farm is coming off." Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. "I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't Sylvia want Rupert to get the letter?" "Eh? Oh well, you see, she doesn't really trust Rupert." "I _knew_ it. There's no such character as Rupert in the story. I shall never read to you again." "Well, to tell you the truth I was just thinking." "Oh." "I was thinking how delightful it is, that it's Saturday morning and we haven't got anyone coming for the week-end." "Oh, you thought that?" "Don't you?" "Well, it sometimes seems to me rather pointless keeping up a house this size if we don't now and then ask some other people to stay in it." "_Pointless?_ I can't think what you mean. I don't keep up this house to be a hostel for a lot
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"content": "capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called \"the Museum\", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. \"Has her ladyship been called yet?\" \"About a quarter of an hour ago, sir.\" \"Then I'll have breakfast in her room.\" He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. \"Well?\" said Tony.<|quote|>\"Kiss.\"</|quote|>He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. \"Anything interesting?\" He picked up some of the letters. \"No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?\" \"I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time.\" \"Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?\" \"That's easy. Not on her life, we won't.\" \"I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party.\" \"You go if you like. I can't possibly get away.\" \"That's all right. I knew it would be \"no\" before I opened the letter.\" \"Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?\" \"Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit.\" Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, \"As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end.\" \"Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?\" \"I daresay not.\" While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. \"Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace... that play we went to about a farm is coming off.\" Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. \"I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't Sylvia want Rupert to get the letter?\" \"Eh? Oh well, you see, she doesn't really trust Rupert.\" \"I _knew_ it. There's no such character as Rupert in the story. I shall never read to you again.\" \"Well, to tell you the truth I was just thinking.\" \"Oh.\" \"I was thinking how delightful it is, that it's Saturday morning and we haven't got anyone coming for the week-end.\" \"Oh, you thought that?\" \"Don't you?\" \"Well, it sometimes seems to me rather pointless keeping up a house this size if we don't now and then ask some other people to stay in it.\" \"_Pointless?_ I can't think what you mean. I don't keep up this house to be a hostel for a lot",
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Brenda
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He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had.
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No speaker
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neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss."<|quote|>He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had.</|quote|>"Anything interesting?" He picked up
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tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss."<|quote|>He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had.</|quote|>"Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No.
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bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss."<|quote|>He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had.</|quote|>"Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long
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ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss."<|quote|>He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had.</|quote|>"Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go
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coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss."<|quote|>He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had.</|quote|>"Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window.
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were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss."<|quote|>He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had.</|quote|>"Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace... that play we went to about a farm is coming off." Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. "I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't Sylvia want Rupert to get the letter?" "Eh? Oh well, you see, she doesn't really trust Rupert." "I _knew_ it. There's no such character as Rupert in the story. I shall never read to you again." "Well, to tell you the truth I was just thinking." "Oh." "I was thinking how delightful it is, that it's Saturday morning and we haven't got anyone coming for the week-end." "Oh, you thought that?" "Don't
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knew, it was not convenient to run; but what big house was? It was not altogether amenable to modern ideas of comfort; he had many small improvements in mind, which would be put into effect as soon as the death duties were paid off. But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as "amusing", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss."<|quote|>He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had.</|quote|>"Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace... that play we went to about a farm is coming off." Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. "I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't Sylvia want Rupert to get the letter?" "Eh? Oh well, you see, she doesn't really trust Rupert." "I _knew_ it. There's no such character as Rupert in the story. I shall never read to you again." "Well, to tell you the truth I was just thinking." "Oh." "I was thinking how delightful it is, that it's Saturday morning and we haven't got anyone coming for the week-end." "Oh, you thought that?" "Don't you?" "Well, it sometimes seems to me rather pointless keeping up a house this size if we don't now and then ask some other people to stay in it." "_Pointless?_ I can't think what you mean. I don't keep up this house to be a hostel for a lot of bores to come and gossip in. We've always lived here and I hope John will be able to keep it on after me. One has a duty towards one's employees, and towards the place too. It's a definite part of English life which would be a serious loss if..." Then Tony stopped short in his speech and looked at the bed. Brenda had turned on her face and only the top of her head appeared above the sheets. "Oh God," she said into the pillow. "What have I done?" "I say, am I being pompous again?" She turned sideways so that her nose and one eye emerged. "Oh no, darling, not _pompous_. You wouldn't know how." "Sorry." Brenda sat up. "And, please, I didn't mean it. I'm jolly glad too, that no one's coming." (These scenes of domestic playfulness had been more or less continuous in Tony and Brenda's life for seven years.) Outside, it was soft English weather; mist in the hollows and pale sunshine on the hills; the coverts had ceased dripping, for there were no leaves to hold the recent rain, but the undergrowth was wet, dark in the shadows, iridescent where the sun caught it; the lanes were soggy and there was water running in the ditches. John Andrew sat his pony, solemn and stiff as a Lifeguard, while Ben fixed the jump. Thunderclap had been a present on his sixth birthday from Uncle Reggie. It was John who had named her, after lengthy consultation. Originally she had been called Christabelle which, as Ben said, was more the name for a hound than a horse. Ben had known a strawberry roan called Thunderclap who killed two riders and won the local point-to-point four years running. He had been a lovely little horse, said Ben, till he staked himself in the guts, hunting, and had to be shot. Ben knew stories about a great many different horses. There was one called Zero on whom he had won five Jimmy-o-goblins at ten to three at Chester one year. And there was a mule he had known during the
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as "amusing", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss."<|quote|>He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had.</|quote|>"Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
as "amusing", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss."<|quote|>He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had.</|quote|>"Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter
|
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"content": "as \"amusing\", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called \"the Museum\", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. \"Has her ladyship been called yet?\" \"About a quarter of an hour ago, sir.\" \"Then I'll have breakfast in her room.\" He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. \"Well?\" said Tony. \"Kiss.\"<|quote|>He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had.</|quote|>\"Anything interesting?\" He picked up some of the letters. \"No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?\" \"I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time.\" \"Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?\" \"That's easy. Not on her life, we won't.\" \"I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party.\" \"You go if you like. I can't possibly get away.\" \"That's all right. I knew it would be \"no\" before I opened the letter.\" \"Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?\" \"Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit.\" Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, \"As a matter",
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No speaker
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"Anything interesting?"
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Tony Last
|
was a way she had.<|quote|>"Anything interesting?"</|quote|>He picked up some of
|
cheek like a cat. It was a way she had.<|quote|>"Anything interesting?"</|quote|>He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants
|
and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had.<|quote|>"Anything interesting?"</|quote|>He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well,
|
She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had.<|quote|>"Anything interesting?"</|quote|>He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you
|
stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had.<|quote|>"Anything interesting?"</|quote|>He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four
|
in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had.<|quote|>"Anything interesting?"</|quote|>He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace... that play we went to about a farm is coming off." Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. "I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't Sylvia want Rupert to get the letter?" "Eh? Oh well, you see, she doesn't really trust Rupert." "I _knew_ it. There's no such character as Rupert in the story. I shall never read to you again." "Well, to tell you the truth I was just thinking." "Oh." "I was thinking how delightful it is, that it's Saturday morning and we haven't got anyone coming for the week-end." "Oh, you thought that?" "Don't you?" "Well,
|
But the general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as "amusing", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had.<|quote|>"Anything interesting?"</|quote|>He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace... that play we went to about a farm is coming off." Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. "I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't Sylvia want Rupert to get the letter?" "Eh? Oh well, you see, she doesn't really trust Rupert." "I _knew_ it. There's no such character as Rupert in the story. I shall never read to you again." "Well, to tell you the truth I was just thinking." "Oh." "I was thinking how delightful it is, that it's Saturday morning and we haven't got anyone coming for the week-end." "Oh, you thought that?" "Don't you?" "Well, it sometimes seems to me rather pointless keeping up a house this size if we don't now and then ask some other people to stay in it." "_Pointless?_ I can't think what you mean. I don't keep up this house to be a hostel for a lot of bores to come and gossip in. We've always lived here and I hope John will be able to keep it on after me. One has a duty towards one's employees, and towards the place too. It's a definite part of English life which would be a serious loss if..." Then Tony stopped short in his speech and looked at the bed. Brenda had turned on her face and only the top of her head appeared above the sheets. "Oh God," she said into the pillow. "What have I done?" "I say, am I being pompous again?" She turned sideways so that her nose and one eye emerged. "Oh no, darling, not _pompous_. You wouldn't know how." "Sorry." Brenda sat up. "And, please, I didn't mean it. I'm jolly glad too, that no one's coming." (These scenes of domestic playfulness had been more or less continuous in Tony and Brenda's life for seven years.) Outside, it was soft English weather; mist in the hollows and pale sunshine on the hills; the coverts had ceased dripping, for there were no leaves to hold the recent rain, but the undergrowth was wet, dark in the shadows, iridescent where the sun caught it; the lanes were soggy and there was water running in the ditches. John Andrew sat his pony, solemn and stiff as a Lifeguard, while Ben fixed the jump. Thunderclap had been a present on his sixth birthday from Uncle Reggie. It was John who had named her, after lengthy consultation. Originally she had been called Christabelle which, as Ben said, was more the name for a hound than a horse. Ben had known a strawberry roan called Thunderclap who killed two riders and won the local point-to-point four years running. He had been a lovely little horse, said Ben, till he staked himself in the guts, hunting, and had to be shot. Ben knew stories about a great many different horses. There was one called Zero on whom he had won five Jimmy-o-goblins at ten to three at Chester one year. And there was a mule he had known during the war, called
|
one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as "amusing", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had.<|quote|>"Anything interesting?"</|quote|>He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace... that play we went to about a farm is coming off." Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. "I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't Sylvia want Rupert to get the letter?" "Eh? Oh well, you see, she doesn't really trust Rupert." "I _knew_ it. There's no such character as Rupert in the story. I shall never read to you again." "Well, to tell you the truth I was just thinking." "Oh." "I was thinking how delightful it is, that it's Saturday morning and we haven't got anyone coming for the week-end." "Oh, you thought that?" "Don't you?" "Well, it sometimes seems to me rather pointless keeping up a house this size if we don't now and then ask some other people to stay in it." "_Pointless?_ I can't think what you mean. I don't keep up this house to be a hostel for a lot of bores to come and gossip in. We've always lived here and I hope John will be able to keep it on after me. One has a duty towards one's employees, and towards the place too. It's a definite part of English life which would be a serious loss if..." Then Tony stopped short in his speech and looked at the bed. Brenda had turned on her face and
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as "amusing", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had.<|quote|>"Anything interesting?"</|quote|>He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace... that play we went to about a farm is coming off." Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. "I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't Sylvia want Rupert to get the letter?" "Eh? Oh well, you see, she doesn't really trust Rupert." "I _knew_ it. There's no such character as Rupert in the story. I shall never read to you again." "Well, to tell you the truth I was just thinking." "Oh." "I was thinking how delightful it is, that it's Saturday morning and we haven't got anyone coming for the week-end." "Oh, you thought that?" "Don't you?" "Well, it sometimes seems to me rather pointless keeping up a house this size if we don't now and then ask some other people to stay in it." "_Pointless?_ I can't think what you mean. I don't keep up this house to be a hostel for a lot of bores to come and gossip in. We've always lived here and I hope John will be able to keep it on after me. One has a duty towards one's employees, and towards the place too. It's a definite part of English life which would be a serious loss if..." Then Tony stopped short in his speech and looked at the bed. Brenda had turned on her face and
|
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"content": "one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as \"amusing\", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called \"the Museum\", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. \"Has her ladyship been called yet?\" \"About a quarter of an hour ago, sir.\" \"Then I'll have breakfast in her room.\" He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. \"Well?\" said Tony. \"Kiss.\" He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had.<|quote|>\"Anything interesting?\"</|quote|>He picked up some of the letters. \"No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?\" \"I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time.\" \"Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?\" \"That's easy. Not on her life, we won't.\" \"I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party.\" \"You go if you like. I can't possibly get away.\" \"That's all right. I knew it would be \"no\" before I opened the letter.\" \"Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?\" \"Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit.\" Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, \"As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end.\" \"Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?\" \"I daresay not.\" While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. \"Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace... that play we went to about a farm is coming off.\" Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. \"I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't Sylvia want Rupert to get the letter?\" \"Eh? Oh well, you see, she doesn't really trust Rupert.\" \"I _knew_ it. There's no such character as Rupert in the story. I shall never read to you again.\" \"Well, to tell you the truth I was just thinking.\" \"Oh.\" \"I was thinking how delightful it is, that it's Saturday morning and we haven't got anyone coming for the week-end.\" \"Oh, you thought that?\" \"Don't you?\" \"Well, it sometimes seems to me rather pointless keeping up a house this size if we don't now and then ask some other people to stay in it.\" \"_Pointless?_ I can't think what you mean. I don't keep up this house to be a hostel for a lot of bores to come and gossip in. We've always lived here and I hope John will be able to keep it on after me. One has a duty towards one's employees, and towards the place too. It's a definite part of English life which would be a serious loss if...\" Then Tony stopped short in his speech and looked at the bed. Brenda had turned on her face and",
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"content": "Tony Last",
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Tony Last
|
He picked up some of the letters.
|
No speaker
|
way she had. "Anything interesting?"<|quote|>He picked up some of the letters.</|quote|>"No. Mama wants nanny to
|
a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?"<|quote|>He picked up some of the letters.</|quote|>"No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting
|
"Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?"<|quote|>He picked up some of the letters.</|quote|>"No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting
|
insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?"<|quote|>He picked up some of the letters.</|quote|>"No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's
|
his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?"<|quote|>He picked up some of the letters.</|quote|>"No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible
|
in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?"<|quote|>He picked up some of the letters.</|quote|>"No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace... that play we went to about a farm is coming off." Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. "I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't Sylvia want Rupert to get the letter?" "Eh? Oh well, you see, she doesn't really trust Rupert." "I _knew_ it. There's no such character as Rupert in the story. I shall never read to you again." "Well, to tell you the truth I was just thinking." "Oh." "I was thinking how delightful it is, that it's Saturday morning and we haven't got anyone coming for the week-end." "Oh, you thought that?" "Don't you?" "Well, it sometimes seems to me rather pointless
|
general aspect and atmosphere of the place; the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as "amusing", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?"<|quote|>He picked up some of the letters.</|quote|>"No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace... that play we went to about a farm is coming off." Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. "I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't Sylvia want Rupert to get the letter?" "Eh? Oh well, you see, she doesn't really trust Rupert." "I _knew_ it. There's no such character as Rupert in the story. I shall never read to you again." "Well, to tell you the truth I was just thinking." "Oh." "I was thinking how delightful it is, that it's Saturday morning and we haven't got anyone coming for the week-end." "Oh, you thought that?" "Don't you?" "Well, it sometimes seems to me rather pointless keeping up a house this size if we don't now and then ask some other people to stay in it." "_Pointless?_ I can't think what you mean. I don't keep up this house to be a hostel for a lot of bores to come and gossip in. We've always lived here and I hope John will be able to keep it on after me. One has a duty towards one's employees, and towards the place too. It's a definite part of English life which would be a serious loss if..." Then Tony stopped short in his speech and looked at the bed. Brenda had turned on her face and only the top of her head appeared above the sheets. "Oh God," she said into the pillow. "What have I done?" "I say, am I being pompous again?" She turned sideways so that her nose and one eye emerged. "Oh no, darling, not _pompous_. You wouldn't know how." "Sorry." Brenda sat up. "And, please, I didn't mean it. I'm jolly glad too, that no one's coming." (These scenes of domestic playfulness had been more or less continuous in Tony and Brenda's life for seven years.) Outside, it was soft English weather; mist in the hollows and pale sunshine on the hills; the coverts had ceased dripping, for there were no leaves to hold the recent rain, but the undergrowth was wet, dark in the shadows, iridescent where the sun caught it; the lanes were soggy and there was water running in the ditches. John Andrew sat his pony, solemn and stiff as a Lifeguard, while Ben fixed the jump. Thunderclap had been a present on his sixth birthday from Uncle Reggie. It was John who had named her, after lengthy consultation. Originally she had been called Christabelle which, as Ben said, was more the name for a hound than a horse. Ben had known a strawberry roan called Thunderclap who killed two riders and won the local point-to-point four years running. He had been a lovely little horse, said Ben, till he staked himself in the guts, hunting, and had to be shot. Ben knew stories about a great many different horses. There was one called Zero on whom he had won five Jimmy-o-goblins at ten to three at Chester one year. And there was a mule he had known during the war, called Peppermint, who had died of drinking the
|
every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?"<|quote|>He picked up some of the letters.</|quote|>"No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace... that play we went to about a farm is coming off." Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. "I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't Sylvia want Rupert to get the letter?" "Eh? Oh well, you see, she doesn't really trust Rupert." "I _knew_ it. There's no such character as Rupert in the story. I shall never read to you again." "Well, to tell you the truth I was just thinking." "Oh." "I was thinking how delightful it is, that it's Saturday morning and we haven't got anyone coming for the week-end." "Oh, you thought that?" "Don't you?" "Well, it sometimes seems to me rather pointless keeping up a house this size if we don't now and then ask some other people to stay in it." "_Pointless?_ I can't think what you mean. I don't keep up this house to be a hostel for a lot of bores to come and gossip in. We've always lived here and I hope John will be able to keep it on after me. One has a duty towards one's employees, and towards the place too. It's a definite part of English life which would be a serious loss if..." Then Tony stopped short in his speech and looked at the bed. Brenda had turned on her face and only the top of her head appeared above the sheets. "Oh God," she said into the pillow. "What have I done?" "I say, am I being pompous again?" She turned sideways so that her nose and one eye emerged. "Oh no, darling, not _pompous_. You wouldn't know how." "Sorry." Brenda sat up. "And, please, I didn't mean it. I'm jolly glad
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?"<|quote|>He picked up some of the letters.</|quote|>"No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace... that play we went to about a farm is coming off." Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. "I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't Sylvia want Rupert to get the letter?" "Eh? Oh well, you see, she doesn't really trust Rupert." "I _knew_ it. There's no such character as Rupert in the story. I shall never read to you again." "Well, to tell you the truth I was just thinking." "Oh." "I was thinking how delightful it is, that it's Saturday morning and we haven't got anyone coming for the week-end." "Oh, you thought that?" "Don't you?" "Well, it sometimes seems to me rather pointless keeping up a house this size if we don't now and then ask some other people to stay in it." "_Pointless?_ I can't think what you mean. I don't keep up this house to be a hostel for a lot of bores to come and gossip in. We've always lived here and I hope John will be able to keep it on after me. One has a duty towards one's employees, and towards the place too. It's a definite part of English life which would be a serious loss if..." Then Tony stopped short in his speech and looked at the bed. Brenda had turned on her face and only the top of her head appeared above the sheets. "Oh God," she said into the pillow. "What have I done?" "I say, am I being pompous again?" She turned sideways so that her nose and one eye emerged. "Oh no, darling, not _pompous_. You wouldn't know how." "Sorry." Brenda sat up. "And, please, I didn't mean it. I'm jolly glad
|
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"content": "every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called \"the Museum\", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. \"Has her ladyship been called yet?\" \"About a quarter of an hour ago, sir.\" \"Then I'll have breakfast in her room.\" He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. \"Well?\" said Tony. \"Kiss.\" He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. \"Anything interesting?\"<|quote|>He picked up some of the letters.</|quote|>\"No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?\" \"I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time.\" \"Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?\" \"That's easy. Not on her life, we won't.\" \"I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party.\" \"You go if you like. I can't possibly get away.\" \"That's all right. I knew it would be \"no\" before I opened the letter.\" \"Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?\" \"Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit.\" Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, \"As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end.\" \"Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?\" \"I daresay not.\" While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. \"Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace... that play we went to about a farm is coming off.\" Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. \"I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't Sylvia want Rupert to get the letter?\" \"Eh? Oh well, you see, she doesn't really trust Rupert.\" \"I _knew_ it. There's no such character as Rupert in the story. I shall never read to you again.\" \"Well, to tell you the truth I was just thinking.\" \"Oh.\" \"I was thinking how delightful it is, that it's Saturday morning and we haven't got anyone coming for the week-end.\" \"Oh, you thought that?\" \"Don't you?\" \"Well, it sometimes seems to me rather pointless keeping up a house this size if we don't now and then ask some other people to stay in it.\" \"_Pointless?_ I can't think what you mean. I don't keep up this house to be a hostel for a lot of bores to come and gossip in. We've always lived here and I hope John will be able to keep it on after me. One has a duty towards one's employees, and towards the place too. It's a definite part of English life which would be a serious loss if...\" Then Tony stopped short in his speech and looked at the bed. Brenda had turned on her face and only the top of her head appeared above the sheets. \"Oh God,\" she said into the pillow. \"What have I done?\" \"I say, am I being pompous again?\" She turned sideways so that her nose and one eye emerged. \"Oh no, darling, not _pompous_. You wouldn't know how.\" \"Sorry.\" Brenda sat up. \"And, please, I didn't mean it. I'm jolly glad",
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No speaker
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"No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?"
|
Brenda
|
up some of the letters.<|quote|>"No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?"</|quote|>"I think you'd better, we
|
had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters.<|quote|>"No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?"</|quote|>"I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him
|
the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters.<|quote|>"No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?"</|quote|>"I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life,
|
was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters.<|quote|>"No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?"</|quote|>"I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire
|
books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters.<|quote|>"No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?"</|quote|>"I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I
|
and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters.<|quote|>"No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?"</|quote|>"I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace... that play we went to about a farm is coming off." Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. "I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't Sylvia want Rupert to get the letter?" "Eh? Oh well, you see, she doesn't really trust Rupert." "I _knew_ it. There's no such character as Rupert in the story. I shall never read to you again." "Well, to tell you the truth I was just thinking." "Oh." "I was thinking how delightful it is, that it's Saturday morning and we haven't got anyone coming for the week-end." "Oh, you thought that?" "Don't you?" "Well, it sometimes seems to me rather pointless keeping up a house this size if we don't now and then ask some other people to stay in it." "_Pointless?_ I can't think what you mean. I
|
the line of its battlements against the sky; the central clock tower where quarterly chimes disturbed all but the heaviest sleepers; the ecclesiastical gloom of the great hall, its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as "amusing", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters.<|quote|>"No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?"</|quote|>"I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace... that play we went to about a farm is coming off." Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. "I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't Sylvia want Rupert to get the letter?" "Eh? Oh well, you see, she doesn't really trust Rupert." "I _knew_ it. There's no such character as Rupert in the story. I shall never read to you again." "Well, to tell you the truth I was just thinking." "Oh." "I was thinking how delightful it is, that it's Saturday morning and we haven't got anyone coming for the week-end." "Oh, you thought that?" "Don't you?" "Well, it sometimes seems to me rather pointless keeping up a house this size if we don't now and then ask some other people to stay in it." "_Pointless?_ I can't think what you mean. I don't keep up this house to be a hostel for a lot of bores to come and gossip in. We've always lived here and I hope John will be able to keep it on after me. One has a duty towards one's employees, and towards the place too. It's a definite part of English life which would be a serious loss if..." Then Tony stopped short in his speech and looked at the bed. Brenda had turned on her face and only the top of her head appeared above the sheets. "Oh God," she said into the pillow. "What have I done?" "I say, am I being pompous again?" She turned sideways so that her nose and one eye emerged. "Oh no, darling, not _pompous_. You wouldn't know how." "Sorry." Brenda sat up. "And, please, I didn't mean it. I'm jolly glad too, that no one's coming." (These scenes of domestic playfulness had been more or less continuous in Tony and Brenda's life for seven years.) Outside, it was soft English weather; mist in the hollows and pale sunshine on the hills; the coverts had ceased dripping, for there were no leaves to hold the recent rain, but the undergrowth was wet, dark in the shadows, iridescent where the sun caught it; the lanes were soggy and there was water running in the ditches. John Andrew sat his pony, solemn and stiff as a Lifeguard, while Ben fixed the jump. Thunderclap had been a present on his sixth birthday from Uncle Reggie. It was John who had named her, after lengthy consultation. Originally she had been called Christabelle which, as Ben said, was more the name for a hound than a horse. Ben had known a strawberry roan called Thunderclap who killed two riders and won the local point-to-point four years running. He had been a lovely little horse, said Ben, till he staked himself in the guts, hunting, and had to be shot. Ben knew stories about a great many different horses. There was one called Zero on whom he had won five Jimmy-o-goblins at ten to three at Chester one year. And there was a mule he had known during the war, called Peppermint, who had died of drinking the company's rum ration. But John was not going to name his pony after a drunken mule. So in the end they had decided on Thunderclap, in spite of
|
between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters.<|quote|>"No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?"</|quote|>"I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace... that play we went to about a farm is coming off." Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. "I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't Sylvia want Rupert to get the letter?" "Eh? Oh well, you see, she doesn't really trust Rupert." "I _knew_ it. There's no such character as Rupert in the story. I shall never read to you again." "Well, to tell you the truth I was just thinking." "Oh." "I was thinking how delightful it is,
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters.<|quote|>"No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?"</|quote|>"I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace... that play we went to about a farm is coming off." Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. "I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't Sylvia want Rupert to get the letter?" "Eh? Oh well, you see, she doesn't really trust Rupert." "I _knew_ it. There's no such character as Rupert in the story. I shall never read to you again." "Well, to tell you the truth I was just thinking." "Oh." "I was thinking how delightful it is,
|
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"content": "between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called \"the Museum\", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. \"Has her ladyship been called yet?\" \"About a quarter of an hour ago, sir.\" \"Then I'll have breakfast in her room.\" He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. \"Well?\" said Tony. \"Kiss.\" He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. \"Anything interesting?\" He picked up some of the letters.<|quote|>\"No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?\"</|quote|>\"I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time.\" \"Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?\" \"That's easy. Not on her life, we won't.\" \"I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party.\" \"You go if you like. I can't possibly get away.\" \"That's all right. I knew it would be \"no\" before I opened the letter.\" \"Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?\" \"Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit.\" Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, \"As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end.\" \"Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?\" \"I daresay not.\" While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. \"Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace... that play we went to about a farm is coming off.\" Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. \"I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't Sylvia want Rupert to get the letter?\" \"Eh? Oh well, you see, she doesn't really trust Rupert.\" \"I _knew_ it. There's no such character as Rupert in the story. I shall never read to you again.\" \"Well, to tell you the truth I was just thinking.\" \"Oh.\" \"I was thinking how delightful it is,",
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Brenda
|
"I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time."
|
Tony Last
|
month. I needn't, need I?"<|quote|>"I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time."</|quote|>"Well, you must write the
|
me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?"<|quote|>"I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time."</|quote|>"Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old
|
rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?"<|quote|>"I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time."</|quote|>"Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if
|
her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?"<|quote|>"I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time."</|quote|>"Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going.
|
people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?"<|quote|>"I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time."</|quote|>"Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers.
|
delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?"<|quote|>"I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time."</|quote|>"Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace... that play we went to about a farm is coming off." Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. "I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't Sylvia want Rupert to get the letter?" "Eh? Oh well, you see, she doesn't really trust Rupert." "I _knew_ it. There's no such character as Rupert in the story. I shall never read to you again." "Well, to tell you the truth I was just thinking." "Oh." "I was thinking how delightful it is, that it's Saturday morning and we haven't got anyone coming for the week-end." "Oh, you thought that?" "Don't you?" "Well, it sometimes seems to me rather pointless keeping up a house this size if we don't now and then ask some other people to stay in it." "_Pointless?_ I can't think what you mean. I don't keep up this house to be a hostel for a lot of bores
|
its ceiling groined and painted in diapers of red and gold, supported on shafts of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as "amusing", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?"<|quote|>"I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time."</|quote|>"Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace... that play we went to about a farm is coming off." Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. "I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't Sylvia want Rupert to get the letter?" "Eh? Oh well, you see, she doesn't really trust Rupert." "I _knew_ it. There's no such character as Rupert in the story. I shall never read to you again." "Well, to tell you the truth I was just thinking." "Oh." "I was thinking how delightful it is, that it's Saturday morning and we haven't got anyone coming for the week-end." "Oh, you thought that?" "Don't you?" "Well, it sometimes seems to me rather pointless keeping up a house this size if we don't now and then ask some other people to stay in it." "_Pointless?_ I can't think what you mean. I don't keep up this house to be a hostel for a lot of bores to come and gossip in. We've always lived here and I hope John will be able to keep it on after me. One has a duty towards one's employees, and towards the place too. It's a definite part of English life which would be a serious loss if..." Then Tony stopped short in his speech and looked at the bed. Brenda had turned on her face and only the top of her head appeared above the sheets. "Oh God," she said into the pillow. "What have I done?" "I say, am I being pompous again?" She turned sideways so that her nose and one eye emerged. "Oh no, darling, not _pompous_. You wouldn't know how." "Sorry." Brenda sat up. "And, please, I didn't mean it. I'm jolly glad too, that no one's coming." (These scenes of domestic playfulness had been more or less continuous in Tony and Brenda's life for seven years.) Outside, it was soft English weather; mist in the hollows and pale sunshine on the hills; the coverts had ceased dripping, for there were no leaves to hold the recent rain, but the undergrowth was wet, dark in the shadows, iridescent where the sun caught it; the lanes were soggy and there was water running in the ditches. John Andrew sat his pony, solemn and stiff as a Lifeguard, while Ben fixed the jump. Thunderclap had been a present on his sixth birthday from Uncle Reggie. It was John who had named her, after lengthy consultation. Originally she had been called Christabelle which, as Ben said, was more the name for a hound than a horse. Ben had known a strawberry roan called Thunderclap who killed two riders and won the local point-to-point four years running. He had been a lovely little horse, said Ben, till he staked himself in the guts, hunting, and had to be shot. Ben knew stories about a great many different horses. There was one called Zero on whom he had won five Jimmy-o-goblins at ten to three at Chester one year. And there was a mule he had known during the war, called Peppermint, who had died of drinking the company's rum ration. But John was not going to name his pony after a drunken mule. So in the end they had decided on Thunderclap, in spite of her imperturbable disposition. She was a dark bay, with long tail and mane. Ben
|
not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?"<|quote|>"I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time."</|quote|>"Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace... that play we went to about a farm is coming off." Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. "I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't Sylvia want Rupert to get the letter?" "Eh? Oh well, you see, she doesn't really trust Rupert." "I _knew_ it. There's no such character as
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?"<|quote|>"I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time."</|quote|>"Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?" "That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace... that play we went to about a farm is coming off." Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. "I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't Sylvia want Rupert to get the letter?" "Eh? Oh well, you see, she doesn't really trust Rupert." "I _knew_ it. There's no such character as
|
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"messages": [
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"content": "You are helpful",
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"content": "not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called \"the Museum\", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. \"Has her ladyship been called yet?\" \"About a quarter of an hour ago, sir.\" \"Then I'll have breakfast in her room.\" He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. \"Well?\" said Tony. \"Kiss.\" He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. \"Anything interesting?\" He picked up some of the letters. \"No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?\"<|quote|>\"I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time.\"</|quote|>\"Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?\" \"That's easy. Not on her life, we won't.\" \"I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party.\" \"You go if you like. I can't possibly get away.\" \"That's all right. I knew it would be \"no\" before I opened the letter.\" \"Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?\" \"Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit.\" Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, \"As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end.\" \"Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?\" \"I daresay not.\" While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. \"Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace... that play we went to about a farm is coming off.\" Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. \"I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't Sylvia want Rupert to get the letter?\" \"Eh? Oh well, you see, she doesn't really trust Rupert.\" \"I _knew_ it. There's no such character as",
"role": "user"
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"content": "Tony Last",
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Tony Last
|
"Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?"
|
Brenda
|
him for a long time."<|quote|>"Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?"</|quote|>"That's easy. Not on her
|
we haven't done anything for him for a long time."<|quote|>"Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?"</|quote|>"That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed
|
interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time."<|quote|>"Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?"</|quote|>"That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in
|
neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time."<|quote|>"Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?"</|quote|>"That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray.
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planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time."<|quote|>"Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?"</|quote|>"That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that
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He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time."<|quote|>"Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?"</|quote|>"That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace... that play we went to about a farm is coming off." Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. "I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't Sylvia want Rupert to get the letter?" "Eh? Oh well, you see, she doesn't really trust Rupert." "I _knew_ it. There's no such character as Rupert in the story. I shall never read to you again." "Well, to tell you the truth I was just thinking." "Oh." "I was thinking how delightful it is, that it's Saturday morning and we haven't got anyone coming for the week-end." "Oh, you thought that?" "Don't you?" "Well, it sometimes seems to me rather pointless keeping up a house this size if we don't now and then ask some other people to stay in it." "_Pointless?_ I can't think what you mean. I don't keep up this house to be a hostel for a lot of bores to come and gossip in. We've always lived here and I hope John will be able to keep it on after me. One has a duty towards one's employees, and
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of polished granite with vine-wreathed capitals, half-lit by day through lancet windows of armorial stained glass, at night by a vast gasolier of brass and wrought iron, wired now and fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as "amusing", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time."<|quote|>"Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?"</|quote|>"That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace... that play we went to about a farm is coming off." Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. "I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't Sylvia want Rupert to get the letter?" "Eh? Oh well, you see, she doesn't really trust Rupert." "I _knew_ it. There's no such character as Rupert in the story. I shall never read to you again." "Well, to tell you the truth I was just thinking." "Oh." "I was thinking how delightful it is, that it's Saturday morning and we haven't got anyone coming for the week-end." "Oh, you thought that?" "Don't you?" "Well, it sometimes seems to me rather pointless keeping up a house this size if we don't now and then ask some other people to stay in it." "_Pointless?_ I can't think what you mean. I don't keep up this house to be a hostel for a lot of bores to come and gossip in. We've always lived here and I hope John will be able to keep it on after me. One has a duty towards one's employees, and towards the place too. It's a definite part of English life which would be a serious loss if..." Then Tony stopped short in his speech and looked at the bed. Brenda had turned on her face and only the top of her head appeared above the sheets. "Oh God," she said into the pillow. "What have I done?" "I say, am I being pompous again?" She turned sideways so that her nose and one eye emerged. "Oh no, darling, not _pompous_. You wouldn't know how." "Sorry." Brenda sat up. "And, please, I didn't mean it. I'm jolly glad too, that no one's coming." (These scenes of domestic playfulness had been more or less continuous in Tony and Brenda's life for seven years.) Outside, it was soft English weather; mist in the hollows and pale sunshine on the hills; the coverts had ceased dripping, for there were no leaves to hold the recent rain, but the undergrowth was wet, dark in the shadows, iridescent where the sun caught it; the lanes were soggy and there was water running in the ditches. John Andrew sat his pony, solemn and stiff as a Lifeguard, while Ben fixed the jump. Thunderclap had been a present on his sixth birthday from Uncle Reggie. It was John who had named her, after lengthy consultation. Originally she had been called Christabelle which, as Ben said, was more the name for a hound than a horse. Ben had known a strawberry roan called Thunderclap who killed two riders and won the local point-to-point four years running. He had been a lovely little horse, said Ben, till he staked himself in the guts, hunting, and had to be shot. Ben knew stories about a great many different horses. There was one called Zero on whom he had won five Jimmy-o-goblins at ten to three at Chester one year. And there was a mule he had known during the war, called Peppermint, who had died of drinking the company's rum ration. But John was not going to name his pony after a drunken mule. So in the end they had decided on Thunderclap, in spite of her imperturbable disposition. She was a dark bay, with long tail and mane. Ben had left her legs shaggy. She cropped the grass, resisting John's attempts to keep her head up. Before her arrival riding had been a very different thing. He had jogged
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_Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time."<|quote|>"Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?"</|quote|>"That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl
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A Handful Of Dust
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_Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time."<|quote|>"Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?"</|quote|>"That's easy. Not on her life, we won't." "I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl
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{
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"content": "You are helpful",
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"content": "_Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. \"Has her ladyship been called yet?\" \"About a quarter of an hour ago, sir.\" \"Then I'll have breakfast in her room.\" He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. \"Well?\" said Tony. \"Kiss.\" He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. \"Anything interesting?\" He picked up some of the letters. \"No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?\" \"I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time.\"<|quote|>\"Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?\"</|quote|>\"That's easy. Not on her life, we won't.\" \"I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party.\" \"You go if you like. I can't possibly get away.\" \"That's all right. I knew it would be \"no\" before I opened the letter.\" \"Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?\" \"Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit.\" Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, \"As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end.\" \"Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?\" \"I daresay not.\" While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. \"Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl",
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Brenda
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"That's easy. Not on her life, we won't."
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Tony Last
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stay for the New Year?"<|quote|>"That's easy. Not on her life, we won't."</|quote|>"I guessed not... though it
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And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?"<|quote|>"That's easy. Not on her life, we won't."</|quote|>"I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You
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next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?"<|quote|>"That's easy. Not on her life, we won't."</|quote|>"I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the
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She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?"<|quote|>"That's easy. Not on her life, we won't."</|quote|>"I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat,
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her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?"<|quote|>"That's easy. Not on her life, we won't."</|quote|>"I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a
|
nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?"<|quote|>"That's easy. Not on her life, we won't."</|quote|>"I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace... that play we went to about a farm is coming off." Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. "I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't Sylvia want Rupert to get the letter?" "Eh? Oh well, you see, she doesn't really trust Rupert." "I _knew_ it. There's no such character as Rupert in the story. I shall never read to you again." "Well, to tell you the truth I was just thinking." "Oh." "I was thinking how delightful it is, that it's Saturday morning and we haven't got anyone coming for the week-end." "Oh, you thought that?" "Don't you?" "Well, it sometimes seems to me rather pointless keeping up a house this size if we don't now and then ask some other people to stay in it." "_Pointless?_ I can't think what you mean. I don't keep up this house to be a hostel for a lot of bores to come and gossip in. We've always lived here and I hope John will be able to keep it on after me. One has a duty towards one's employees, and towards the place too. It's a definite part
|
fitted with twenty electric bulbs; the blasts of hot air that rose suddenly at one's feet, through grills of cast-iron trefoils from the antiquated heating apparatus below; the cavernous chill of the more remote corridors where, economizing in coke, he had had the pipes shut off; the dining-hall with its hammer-beam roof and pitch-pine minstrels" gallery; the bedrooms with their brass bedsteads, each with a frieze of Gothic text, each named from Malory, Yseult, Elaine, Mordred and Merlin, Gawaine and Bedivere, Lancelot, Perceval, Tristram, Galahad, his own dressing-room, Morgan le Fay, and Brenda's Guinevere, where the bed stood on a dais, the walls were hung with tapestry, the fireplace was like a tomb of the thirteenth century, from whose bay window one could count, on days of exceptional clearness, the spires of six churches--all these things with which he had grown up were a source of constant delight and exultation to Tony; things of tender memory and proud possession. They were not in the fashion, he fully realized. Twenty years ago people had liked half timber and old pewter; now it was urns and colonnades; but the time would come, perhaps in John Andrew's day, when opinion would reinstate Hetton in its proper place. Already it was referred to as "amusing", and a very civil young man had asked permission to photograph it for an architectural review. * * * * * The ceiling of Morgan le Fay was not in perfect repair. In order to make an appearance of coffered wood, moulded slats had been nailed in a chequer across the plaster. They were painted in chevrons of blue and gold. The squares between were decorated alternately with Tudor roses and fleurs-de-lis. But damp had penetrated into one corner, leaving a large patch where the gilt had tarnished and the colour flaked away; in another place the wooden laths had become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?"<|quote|>"That's easy. Not on her life, we won't."</|quote|>"I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace... that play we went to about a farm is coming off." Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. "I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't Sylvia want Rupert to get the letter?" "Eh? Oh well, you see, she doesn't really trust Rupert." "I _knew_ it. There's no such character as Rupert in the story. I shall never read to you again." "Well, to tell you the truth I was just thinking." "Oh." "I was thinking how delightful it is, that it's Saturday morning and we haven't got anyone coming for the week-end." "Oh, you thought that?" "Don't you?" "Well, it sometimes seems to me rather pointless keeping up a house this size if we don't now and then ask some other people to stay in it." "_Pointless?_ I can't think what you mean. I don't keep up this house to be a hostel for a lot of bores to come and gossip in. We've always lived here and I hope John will be able to keep it on after me. One has a duty towards one's employees, and towards the place too. It's a definite part of English life which would be a serious loss if..." Then Tony stopped short in his speech and looked at the bed. Brenda had turned on her face and only the top of her head appeared above the sheets. "Oh God," she said into the pillow. "What have I done?" "I say, am I being pompous again?" She turned sideways so that her nose and one eye emerged. "Oh no, darling, not _pompous_. You wouldn't know how." "Sorry." Brenda sat up. "And, please, I didn't mean it. I'm jolly glad too, that no one's coming." (These scenes of domestic playfulness had been more or less continuous in Tony and Brenda's life for seven years.) Outside, it was soft English weather; mist in the hollows and pale sunshine on the hills; the coverts had ceased dripping, for there were no leaves to hold the recent rain, but the undergrowth was wet, dark in the shadows, iridescent where the sun caught it; the lanes were soggy and there was water running in the ditches. John Andrew sat his pony, solemn and stiff as a Lifeguard, while Ben fixed the jump. Thunderclap had been a present on his sixth birthday from Uncle Reggie. It was John who had named her, after lengthy consultation. Originally she had been called Christabelle which, as Ben said, was more the name for a hound than a horse. Ben had known a strawberry roan called Thunderclap who killed two riders and won the local point-to-point four years running. He had been a lovely little horse, said Ben, till he staked himself in the guts, hunting, and had to be shot. Ben knew stories about a great many different horses. There was one called Zero on whom he had won five Jimmy-o-goblins at ten to three at Chester one year. And there was a mule he had known during the war, called Peppermint, who had died of drinking the company's rum ration. But John was not going to name his pony after a drunken mule. So in the end they had decided on Thunderclap, in spite of her imperturbable disposition. She was a dark bay, with long tail and mane. Ben had left her legs shaggy. She cropped the grass, resisting John's attempts to keep her head up. Before her arrival riding had been a very different thing. He had jogged round the paddock on a little Shetland pony
|
become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?"<|quote|>"That's easy. Not on her life, we won't."</|quote|>"I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace... that play we went to about a farm is coming off." Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. "I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't Sylvia want Rupert to get the letter?" "Eh? Oh well, you see, she doesn't really trust Rupert." "I _knew_ it. There's no such character as Rupert in the story. I shall never read to you again." "Well, to tell you the truth I was just thinking." "Oh." "I was thinking how delightful it is, that it's Saturday morning and we haven't got anyone coming for the week-end." "Oh, you thought that?" "Don't you?" "Well, it sometimes seems to me rather pointless keeping up a house this size if we don't now and then ask some other people to stay in it." "_Pointless?_ I can't think what you mean. I don't keep up this house to be a hostel for a lot of bores to come and gossip in. We've always lived here and I hope John will
|
A Handful Of Dust
|
become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called "the Museum", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. "Has her ladyship been called yet?" "About a quarter of an hour ago, sir." "Then I'll have breakfast in her room." He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. "Well?" said Tony. "Kiss." He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. "Anything interesting?" He picked up some of the letters. "No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?" "I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time." "Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?"<|quote|>"That's easy. Not on her life, we won't."</|quote|>"I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party." "You go if you like. I can't possibly get away." "That's all right. I knew it would be "no" before I opened the letter." "Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?" "Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit." Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, "As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end." "Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?" "I daresay not." While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. "Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace... that play we went to about a farm is coming off." Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. "I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't Sylvia want Rupert to get the letter?" "Eh? Oh well, you see, she doesn't really trust Rupert." "I _knew_ it. There's no such character as Rupert in the story. I shall never read to you again." "Well, to tell you the truth I was just thinking." "Oh." "I was thinking how delightful it is, that it's Saturday morning and we haven't got anyone coming for the week-end." "Oh, you thought that?" "Don't you?" "Well, it sometimes seems to me rather pointless keeping up a house this size if we don't now and then ask some other people to stay in it." "_Pointless?_ I can't think what you mean. I don't keep up this house to be a hostel for a lot of bores to come and gossip in. We've always lived here and I hope John will
|
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"content": "You are helpful",
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"content": "become warped and separated from the plaster. Lying in bed, in the grave ten minutes between waking and ringing, Tony studied these defects and resolved anew to have them put right. He wondered whether it would be easy, nowadays, to find craftsmen capable of such delicate work. Morgan le Fay had been his room since he left the night-nursery. He had been put there so that he would be within calling distance of his parents (inseparable in Guinevere), for until quite late in his life he was subject to nightmares. He had taken nothing from the room since he had slept there, but every year added to its contents, so that it now formed a gallery representative of every phase of his adolescence--the framed picture of a dreadnought (a coloured supplement from _Chums_), all its guns spouting flame and smoke; a photographic group of his private school; a cabinet called \"the Museum\", filled with the fruits of a dozen desultory hobbies, eggs, butterflies, fossils, coins; his parents, in the leather diptych which had stood by his bed at school; Brenda, eight years ago when he had been trying to get engaged to her; Brenda with John, taken just after the christening; an aquatint of Hetton, as it had stood until his great-grandfather demolished it; some shelves of books, _Bevis_, _Woodwork at Home_, _Conjuring for All_, _The Young Visiters_, _The Law of Landlord and Tenant_, _Farewell to Arms_. * * * * * All over England people were waking up, queasy and despondent. Tony lay for ten minutes very happily planning the renovation of his ceiling. Then he rang the bell. \"Has her ladyship been called yet?\" \"About a quarter of an hour ago, sir.\" \"Then I'll have breakfast in her room.\" He put on his dressing-gown and slippers and went through into Guinevere. Brenda lay on the dais. She had insisted on a modern bed. Her tray was beside her and the quilt was littered with envelopes, letters and the daily papers. Her head was propped against a very small blue pillow; clean of make-up, her face was almost colourless, rose-pearl, scarcely deeper in tone than her arms and neck. \"Well?\" said Tony. \"Kiss.\" He sat by the tray at the head of the bed; she leant forward to him (a nereid emerging from fathomless depths of clear water). She turned her lips away and rubbed against his cheek like a cat. It was a way she had. \"Anything interesting?\" He picked up some of the letters. \"No. Mama wants nanny to send John's measurements. She's knitting him something for Christmas. And the mayor wants me to open something next month. I needn't, need I?\" \"I think you'd better, we haven't done anything for him for a long time.\" \"Well, you must write the speech. I'm getting too old for the girlish one I used to give them all. And Angela says, will we stay for the New Year?\"<|quote|>\"That's easy. Not on her life, we won't.\"</|quote|>\"I guessed not... though it sounds an amusing party.\" \"You go if you like. I can't possibly get away.\" \"That's all right. I knew it would be \"no\" before I opened the letter.\" \"Well, what sort of pleasure can there be in going all the way to Yorkshire in the middle of winter?\" \"Darling, don't be cross. I know we aren't going. I'm not making a thing about it. I just thought it might be fun to eat someone else's food for a bit.\" Then Brenda's maid brought in the other tray. He had it put by the window seat, and began opening his letters. He looked out of the window. Only four of the six church towers were visible that morning. Presently he said, \"As a matter of fact I probably _can_ manage to get away that week-end.\" \"Darling, are you sure you wouldn't hate it?\" \"I daresay not.\" While he ate his breakfast Brenda read to him from the papers. \"Reggie's been making another speech... There's such an extraordinary picture of Babe and Jock... a woman in America has had twins by two different husbands. Would you have thought that possible?... Two more chaps in gas ovens... a little girl has been strangled in a cemetery with a bootlace... that play we went to about a farm is coming off.\" Then she read him the serial. He lit his pipe. \"I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't Sylvia want Rupert to get the letter?\" \"Eh? Oh well, you see, she doesn't really trust Rupert.\" \"I _knew_ it. There's no such character as Rupert in the story. I shall never read to you again.\" \"Well, to tell you the truth I was just thinking.\" \"Oh.\" \"I was thinking how delightful it is, that it's Saturday morning and we haven't got anyone coming for the week-end.\" \"Oh, you thought that?\" \"Don't you?\" \"Well, it sometimes seems to me rather pointless keeping up a house this size if we don't now and then ask some other people to stay in it.\" \"_Pointless?_ I can't think what you mean. I don't keep up this house to be a hostel for a lot of bores to come and gossip in. We've always lived here and I hope John will",
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"content": "Tony Last",
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|
Tony Last
|
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