witticisms.
‘Does he play piano?’ asked Baz, for whom the world was divided into two groups – those who played jazz and those who didn’t. ‘Morgan says that we need someone on a piano. I say, is Morgan . . . ?’ He looked around the smart, trim morning room as if he expected to see the chauffeur sitting on one the comfortable easy chairs.
‘Let’s go,’ said Poppy hastily. She took Baz by the arm and steered him out while his good manners were making him try to take leave of both Elaine and her husband simultaneously. ‘Daisy wants us to see Lady Cynthia first,’ she said to him soothingly. ‘She’s a horribly boring woman but Daisy likes her son, although I’m not quite sure why – he’s so, so, sooo ugly . . .’ She gave Daisy a mischievous grin. Daisy stiffened but then laughed. Typical Poppy.
‘Now, Poppy, you have to be very, very polite to her,’ she cried. She surveyed Baz. He was the epitome of the well-dressed young man about town – and he was the son of an earl – youngest son, of course, but nevertheless Lady Cynthia would probably like him. He looked a suitable companion for Poppy, and when Charles saw them together, perhaps he would turn his attention to Daisy once and for all.
‘Come on,’ she said in a low voice, with glance at the closed door of the parlour. ‘You can see Morgan afterwards, but don’t bring up the subject of jazz in front of Lady Cynthia.’
‘And don’t say anything about the party the other night,’ warned Poppy.
‘And nothing about telegrams,’ said Daisy, adding, as he looked confused, ‘That’s three things not to mention.’
‘I say,’ said Baz, ‘do you think that I should bring this Lady Cynthia some flowers? Mother always says that a gentleman paying a morning call on a lady brings flowers.’
‘Give her that thing in your buttonhole; it looks stupid,’ said Poppy impatiently.
‘King Oliver wears one of these,’ said Baz, squinting down at his buttonhole as they walked up the street. ‘I say, Pops, Morgan says that King Oliver is coming to London next month. We must go to hear him. He’s got a marvellous new trumpet player called Louis Armstrong.’ He took out his flower, bestowed a worried glance on it and then plunged across the road to the locked enclosed garden for the use of the residents of the square. In a second his long legs had scaled the railings and scattered a few nursemaids and small children. In a few minutes he was back with a handful of violently coloured spring polyanthuses.
‘That’s good,’ said Poppy, surveying them critically. ‘They freshen up that orchid of yours. It looks like it’s dying on its feet.’
‘Well, it came from a bouquet that someone brought to Joan. It was the only one of them that wasn’t completely dead,’ confessed Baz. ‘I snaffled it off the housemaid when she was doing the rooms this morning.’
‘I’m glad you haven’t spent any money on it,’ said Poppy severely. ‘You know that we need all of our money to furnish your house.’
‘I suppose you got the daffodils from another one of those gardens.’ Daisy was giggling helplessly, but she managed to find a bit of string in her bag and to tie up the little bunch of flowers into a neat small bouquet.
Lady Cynthia was alone when the maid introduced them. She welcomed the girls coldly, but unbent when Daisy introduced Baz as a neighbour from Kent and made sure to give his father’s title.
‘Dear boy, how very, very kind of you!’ She gave the small bouquet a perfunctory look and laid it on a side table. That would finish off the wilting orchid, and probably the outdoor flowers as well, but it had broken the ice and they chatted amiably until Charles arrived, looking even more attractive than ever, thought Daisy.
‘I haven’t been in bed! Honest!’ He came in with his hands raised as though a pistol were pointed at him. He greeted them with pleasure and shook hands with all three, explaining that he had been
‘Does he play piano?’ asked Baz, for whom the world was divided into two groups – those who played jazz and those who didn’t. ‘Morgan says that we need someone on a piano. I say, is Morgan . . . ?’ He looked around the smart, trim morning room as if he expected to see the chauffeur sitting on one the comfortable easy chairs.
‘Let’s go,’ said Poppy hastily. She took Baz by the arm and steered him out while his good manners were making him try to take leave of both Elaine and her husband simultaneously. ‘Daisy wants us to see Lady Cynthia first,’ she said to him soothingly. ‘She’s a horribly boring woman but Daisy likes her son, although I’m not quite sure why – he’s so, so, sooo ugly . . .’ She gave Daisy a mischievous grin. Daisy stiffened but then laughed. Typical Poppy.
‘Now, Poppy, you have to be very, very polite to her,’ she cried. She surveyed Baz. He was the epitome of the well-dressed young man about town – and he was the son of an earl – youngest son, of course, but nevertheless Lady Cynthia would probably like him. He looked a suitable companion for Poppy, and when Charles saw them together, perhaps he would turn his attention to Daisy once and for all.
‘Come on,’ she said in a low voice, with glance at the closed door of the parlour. ‘You can see Morgan afterwards, but don’t bring up the subject of jazz in front of Lady Cynthia.’
‘And don’t say anything about the party the other night,’ warned Poppy.
‘And nothing about telegrams,’ said Daisy, adding, as he looked confused, ‘That’s three things not to mention.’
‘I say,’ said Baz, ‘do you think that I should bring this Lady Cynthia some flowers? Mother always says that a gentleman paying a morning call on a lady brings flowers.’
‘Give her that thing in your buttonhole; it looks stupid,’ said Poppy impatiently.
‘King Oliver wears one of these,’ said Baz, squinting down at his buttonhole as they walked up the street. ‘I say, Pops, Morgan says that King Oliver is coming to London next month. We must go to hear him. He’s got a marvellous new trumpet player called Louis Armstrong.’ He took out his flower, bestowed a worried glance on it and then plunged across the road to the locked enclosed garden for the use of the residents of the square. In a second his long legs had scaled the railings and scattered a few nursemaids and small children. In a few minutes he was back with a handful of violently coloured spring polyanthuses.
‘That’s good,’ said Poppy, surveying them critically. ‘They freshen up that orchid of yours. It looks like it’s dying on its feet.’
‘Well, it came from a bouquet that someone brought to Joan. It was the only one of them that wasn’t completely dead,’ confessed Baz. ‘I snaffled it off the housemaid when she was doing the rooms this morning.’
‘I’m glad you haven’t spent any money on it,’ said Poppy severely. ‘You know that we need all of our money to furnish your house.’
‘I suppose you got the daffodils from another one of those gardens.’ Daisy was giggling helplessly, but she managed to find a bit of string in her bag and to tie up the little bunch of flowers into a neat small bouquet.
Lady Cynthia was alone when the maid introduced them. She welcomed the girls coldly, but unbent when Daisy introduced Baz as a neighbour from Kent and made sure to give his father’s title.
‘Dear boy, how very, very kind of you!’ She gave the small bouquet a perfunctory look and laid it on a side table. That would finish off the wilting orchid, and probably the outdoor flowers as well, but it had broken the ice and they chatted amiably until Charles arrived, looking even more attractive than ever, thought Daisy.
‘I haven’t been in bed! Honest!’ He came in with his hands raised as though a pistol were pointed at him. He greeted them with pleasure and shook hands with all three, explaining that he had been
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