Christmas Pudding and Pigeon Pie by Nancy Mitford Read Free Book Online Page B

depressed and not very hopeful.
    The next day, at one o’clock punctually, Amabelle, dressed in pale beige furs, stepped out of her pale beige Rolls-Royce into the High Street of Eton, where she was met with noisy acclamations of delight by Sir Roderick Bobbin, Baronet, of Compton Bobbin, in the county of Gloucestershire.
    ‘Cad, cad, Amabelle darling! First of all you haven’t written to me once as you promised you would, and then you send me a wire only this morning to say you’re coming down. If you had let me know a tiny bit sooner I could have ordered a decent lunch, but as it is I don’t know what we shall get, something uneatable probably. Two days’ notice in future, please, my sweet!’
    ‘I’m sorry, duckie, I simply couldn’t. I only had today free, and I must see you about something very particular. I’m sure the luncheon will be perfect, anyway, it always is. In here?’
    She followed Bobby into a little old house that was half curiosity shop, half restaurant. It was stuffed so full of antiques that every step had to be taken carefully for fear of knocking down some fragile object, while interspersed among the curios were luncheon tables covered with check cloths and arty crafty earthenware. Bobby passed these by, however, and led the way up a dark and narrow staircase, hung with Indian fabrics, to a miniature room at the top of the house, where luncheon for two was laid out in front of a lattice window. A peat fire burned in the open hearth, giving off a delicious smell. The room was cosy and comfortable in the extreme, and seemed to have the very definite atmosphere, unexpected in a shop, of belonging to one particular person. This was indeed the case. Sir Roderick (who had been born with an unerring instinct for living in the greatest available comfort, and who always seemed to know exactly how that comfort could be obtained with the least amount of trouble to himself) had, by dint of showering boyish charm upon the proprietress of the shop, appropriated this room to his own use, and the objects that were strewn about it in casual disorder belonged to him.
    A guitar, that he could not play (lying beside a red leather gramophone that he could and did), a tasteful edition of
A la Recherche du Temps Perdu
, the complete works of Messrs. Ronald Firbank and Aldous Huxley, together with reproductions of two of Picasso’s better-known aquarelles, bore testimony to the fact that young Sir Roderick liked to associate himself with modern culture. The possessor of keen eyes, however, observing some well used bridge markers, the masterpieces of Wallace, and a positive heap of social weekly journals, might suspect that the child was in no real danger at present of overtaxing his mind.
    Amabelle, who had had many opportunitites of drawing her own conclusions on these matters, sat down at the table and picked up an enormous bunch of orchids that lay besideher plate. ‘Are these for me? Thank you, darling, so much.’ During the excellent luncheon that followed Bobby chattered incessantly, telling her with immense gusto the latest scandals from London as viewed at Eton, generally through the prejudiced eyes of son or brother to the person concerned.
    ‘By the way, Felton’s sister, the pretty one, has run away with her chauffeur – did you know?’
    ‘Barbara Casement? Really, darling, do be careful what you say; it sounds most unlikely to me. Are you quite certain?’
    ‘Oh, yes, rather. Felton and I saw them driving through Slough together the day before yesterday. We rocked with laughter, I must say.’
    ‘Well, people generally do drive with their chauffeurs, it’s quite usual.’
    ‘No, I promise it’s true. Felton says she never could resist a peaked cap.’
    ‘I can’t believe it – those lovely babies, she couldn’t leave them.’
    ‘Oh, heavens,’ said Bobby, suddenly whispering. ‘The most awful thing – I quite forgot. Felton’s people are down today and they’re certain to be lunching