ban on reading newspapersat breakfast with the excuse that it was rude, stared glumly into his plate of eggs and bacon and wondered if he should start eating at his club on Saturdays.
“‘Stand-up and sit-down breakfasts are equally fashionable this year,’” his mother read, “‘although each requires a menu particular to its design.’ Hmm…no hot entrées during a stand-up breakfast, of course. Crab puffs and pâté de foie gras to start, a chilled tomato soup served in teacups to be sipped. That way guests needn’t bother with spoons as they mill about the room—what a sensible idea! And so clever!”
Harry couldn’t help rolling his eyes, but the women didn’t seem to notice.
“‘In addition to the customary cold meats and game,’” his mother went on, “‘a hearty salad is always a welcome addition. A chicken salad, for example, with almonds and mayonnaise, is most delicious when served on tiny croissants as finger sandwiches.’”
This suggestion was met with a torrent of praise, though what was so exciting about chicken sandwiches Harry couldn’t fathom.
Jackson appeared beside him with the morning post. Harry pushed aside his plate and sorted through his letters, pausing on one with Lord Barringer’s coronet.
He opened it, and the information it contained was so appalling, he had to read it twice to be sure he wasn’t having a bad dream. Circulation had doubled at the Social Gazette during the pasttwo months, Barringer informed him with obvious relish. As a result, advertising revenues had also increased significantly, and the earl was raising his asking price for the newspaper to one hundred fifty thousand pounds. Barringer was in desperate need of ready money, and time should have made him more willing to lower his asking price. Instead, he was raising it. And why? Because of paper animals and soup served in teacups.
“Harry, dear, don’t grind your teeth,” Louisa admonished him, then peered over her pince-nez at her eldest daughter. “Diana, Mrs. Bartleby’s menu is an excellent one, don’t you think? Most suitable for your own wedding breakfast.”
Harry could take no more. “Absolutely not!” he snapped and stood up. “I am not going to sip cold tomato soup out of a teacup, Mama, not even for Diana!”
With his opinion on that now perfectly clear, Harry tossed his serviette into his plate, thrust Barringer’s letter into his pocket, and departed from the table, leaving nine astonished women staring after him.
Since he didn’t know what his appointments were and neither, it seemed, did his secretary, Harry decided to go to his club. A gentleman’s club was sacrosanct, the last bastion of sensible men who didn’t give a damn about wedding breakfast menus and which young men the girl-bachelors walked out with in the afternoon.
Upon his arrival at Brooks’s, he found two ofhis closest acquaintances were also there, seated at a table in one corner. He crossed the room toward them.
Lord Weston was the first to see him. “By all that’s wonderful,” he cried, standing up to give Harry a hearty clap on the shoulder, “glad you’re here, Marlowe. We’re having a bit of a dispute, and you’ve arrived just in time to settle it.”
“Indeed?” Harry greeted the other man at the table, Sir Philip Knighton, then pulled out a chair. “What are the two of you arguing about this time?”
“I say the four-in-hand tie is still perfectly acceptable, but Sir Philip says it is now comme il faut .”
“I’m not the one saying so, Weston,” Sir Philip protested. “The Bartleby woman was quite emphatic about it in her column last week. The four-in-hand is out.”
“That tears it!” Harry jumped to his feet so violently he knocked over his chair. “Damn it all, can’t a man even go to his club anymore?”
All the gentlemen around him, including his companions, stared at him in astonishment. Harry drew a deep breath. “Forgive me,” he said with a bow, “but I must
“‘Stand-up and sit-down breakfasts are equally fashionable this year,’” his mother read, “‘although each requires a menu particular to its design.’ Hmm…no hot entrées during a stand-up breakfast, of course. Crab puffs and pâté de foie gras to start, a chilled tomato soup served in teacups to be sipped. That way guests needn’t bother with spoons as they mill about the room—what a sensible idea! And so clever!”
Harry couldn’t help rolling his eyes, but the women didn’t seem to notice.
“‘In addition to the customary cold meats and game,’” his mother went on, “‘a hearty salad is always a welcome addition. A chicken salad, for example, with almonds and mayonnaise, is most delicious when served on tiny croissants as finger sandwiches.’”
This suggestion was met with a torrent of praise, though what was so exciting about chicken sandwiches Harry couldn’t fathom.
Jackson appeared beside him with the morning post. Harry pushed aside his plate and sorted through his letters, pausing on one with Lord Barringer’s coronet.
He opened it, and the information it contained was so appalling, he had to read it twice to be sure he wasn’t having a bad dream. Circulation had doubled at the Social Gazette during the pasttwo months, Barringer informed him with obvious relish. As a result, advertising revenues had also increased significantly, and the earl was raising his asking price for the newspaper to one hundred fifty thousand pounds. Barringer was in desperate need of ready money, and time should have made him more willing to lower his asking price. Instead, he was raising it. And why? Because of paper animals and soup served in teacups.
“Harry, dear, don’t grind your teeth,” Louisa admonished him, then peered over her pince-nez at her eldest daughter. “Diana, Mrs. Bartleby’s menu is an excellent one, don’t you think? Most suitable for your own wedding breakfast.”
Harry could take no more. “Absolutely not!” he snapped and stood up. “I am not going to sip cold tomato soup out of a teacup, Mama, not even for Diana!”
With his opinion on that now perfectly clear, Harry tossed his serviette into his plate, thrust Barringer’s letter into his pocket, and departed from the table, leaving nine astonished women staring after him.
Since he didn’t know what his appointments were and neither, it seemed, did his secretary, Harry decided to go to his club. A gentleman’s club was sacrosanct, the last bastion of sensible men who didn’t give a damn about wedding breakfast menus and which young men the girl-bachelors walked out with in the afternoon.
Upon his arrival at Brooks’s, he found two ofhis closest acquaintances were also there, seated at a table in one corner. He crossed the room toward them.
Lord Weston was the first to see him. “By all that’s wonderful,” he cried, standing up to give Harry a hearty clap on the shoulder, “glad you’re here, Marlowe. We’re having a bit of a dispute, and you’ve arrived just in time to settle it.”
“Indeed?” Harry greeted the other man at the table, Sir Philip Knighton, then pulled out a chair. “What are the two of you arguing about this time?”
“I say the four-in-hand tie is still perfectly acceptable, but Sir Philip says it is now comme il faut .”
“I’m not the one saying so, Weston,” Sir Philip protested. “The Bartleby woman was quite emphatic about it in her column last week. The four-in-hand is out.”
“That tears it!” Harry jumped to his feet so violently he knocked over his chair. “Damn it all, can’t a man even go to his club anymore?”
All the gentlemen around him, including his companions, stared at him in astonishment. Harry drew a deep breath. “Forgive me,” he said with a bow, “but I must
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