Chapter 7
The Lexus, emissary of all that was polished and gleaming and gorgeous and above all good, smoothed its path through the desolation of the eastern suburbs. By Page Park, a brief coagulation of the traffic compelled that conveyance to tarry awhile. In the back thereof, Lady Luncheon, fat and floral, adjusted the malevolent chihuahua reposing in the handbag upon her adamantine thighs, and eyed through the glass the louts and common sluts congregating upon the pavement.
“Gracious,” she said, “such funny little people, it is almost like a different species. Rilly, Luncheon, one has positively no idea unless one ekshly prepared to sit down and take tay with the common folk.”
Beside her, Sir Hearty Luncheon, doyen of provincial merchant banking, and this late forenoon very much resembling the form of an egg upon an exquisitely tailored boulder, drew breath, and then exhaled.
“I do wish, my dear,” said he finally, with in his tones something of the sepulchral, “I do wish that you would refrain from animadverting upon vulgar matters which quite properly fall beneath the notice of the cultivé. It is very near to being the grossest form of cant, and I never did bear the cant.”
So saying, Sir Hearty subsided into the naugahyde plush, which with a sigh evinced its sympathy.
Lady Luncheon bestowed upon the companion of her years a smile, then patted the chihuahua, deftly avoiding its fangs.
“Poo poo, Luncheon,” said she, “we must always exert ourselves so as not to lapse into one of our brown studies. Exertion, Luncheon, that is the key. Exertion. Isn’t that right, Mr Widdles?”
Being thus addressed, the chihuahua signified its dissent with a ear-splitting yap. Sir Hearty, flinching, held nonetheless his peace.
After an hiatus, the traffic commenced a tentative inching forwards and then, thinking the better of it, lapsed once more into petrification. Lady Luncheon, leaning forward and smothering the chihuahua beneath her magnificent embonpoint, vented her frustration at the turbaned neck in front.
“Rilly, Mr Singsong, is there no means by which we may exert ourselves so as to expedite progress? One confesses oneself epslootly wan.”
“Regrettably not, my lady,” murmured Mr Jagtar Singh, “ve are very much in the lap of the gods.”
Lady Luncheon flung herself back into the naugahyde plush, producing in that commodity a gasp, and in the chihuahua another murderous yelp.
“Well,” she said crossly, “well rilly. Time after time one forms the reasonable expectation that the functionaries will finally upon this one occasion exert themselves, and inevitably time after time it is only setting oneself up for further disappointment. One finds one’s personal reserves of exertion lamentably depleted. Isn’t that right, Mr Widdles?”
That canine Lazarus, being once more disinterred from its mistress’s embonpoint, now defiled the ears with an appalling shriek.
“I do wish, my dear,” said Sir Hearty very wretchedly, “I do wish that you would look into the means of rendering the brute placid. Is there not for such distemper a sedative capsule?”
“We are projecting, Luncheon,” said the redoubtable lady, “instead of exerting ourselves in order to escape our brown study, Luncheon, we are projecting our brown study upon an innocent creature which never hurt a fly. Isn’t that right, Mr Widdles?”
Sir Hearty, eyed the loathsome creature as it bared its fangs at him, yet held nonetheless his peace.
The traffic again bestirred itself, initiating this time a stuttering progress.
“Not bumped into Minnie Ledwitch in epslootly yonks,” said Lady Luncheon, rummaging beneath the hindquarters of the chihuahua and producing a packet of Bath Olivers, “rather went to ground, one feels, after she insisted on splicing herself to that sopping wet windbag of hers.”
“Quicksotte,” said Sir Hearty testily, “having more than once been put to the necessity of ejecting that certified cretin from my suite of offices, I have come to regard him as the epitome of cant,” and added by way of afterthought, “I never did bear the cant.”
“A most unfortunate match,” mumbled Lady Luncheon through crumbs of Bath Oliver, “lord alone knows what Minnie saw in him. It is rilly quite opaque to one,” and, proffering the packet, added “want biccie?”
“I most certainly do not,” snapped Sir Hearty, “want biccie. Nursery diminutives are the veriest acme of cant, concerning which,” he added querulously, “I believe that I have made my feelings clear. Others may bear it. I never did.”
