My reception at West Kensington you know of. A maidservant held the front door open. He opened the door for her with a faint disagreeable smile. Get on, do. His fingers slipped under the collar of her linen shift and he tore it open with a swipe. Once, when he thought he had done so, he smiled an ingratiating smile. She wanted to return his gaze but focused intently on a spot next to and above the brick fireplace, as her music teachers had always taught her to do instead of looking directly at the audience. “But your hair,” he gasped. Yet she held her tongue. “Yeah, I know. Following her lead, he fortified himself with a swallow of the excellent Madeira before responding. He continued alternately to be tossed in the air, or rolled in the kennel until he was borne out of sight. He resumed his listening. His first wife. So the talk went on.
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