Sunday. Luncheon Castle. An afternoon of frozen unforgiving sunshine ninety minutes short of initiating its slow and grudging subsidence into night. The habitually stentorian tones of Lady Luncheon are transformed upon the present occasion into a sickly saccharine. —
Luncheon Castle, Lady Luncheon
Ensconced behind the magnificent oaken desk in his study in the west wing, Sir Hearty Luncheon hears all this with, writ upon his brow, the lineaments of a profound depression. —
Sir Hearty Luncheon
“Beastly little yap dog,” he mutters, “the veyest embodiment of cant. Never did bear it.” —
Cant
“Fiddlesticks, Luncheon,” replies his wife with vey little dilution of her characteristic punctiliousness, “fiddlesticks and poopoo. We are wallowing in a brown study because we choose to wallow in a brown study. Thet is the fect of the metter. If we do not wish to avail ourselves of the menifest benefits of a bracing perambulation in the fresh air, if we must insist on dedicating ourselves to wallowing in brown studies, then there is nothing further to be done with us. Quodlibet, Luncheon, quodlibet and good afternoon.” —
Brown study
With the passage of a few minutes, a figure, muffled against the wintry sunshine in a heavy coat, is to be observed letting itself out via the scullery door into the kitchen gardens. The knight fantastic - for it is he - looks this way and that and, discerning the coast to be clear, makes his way swiftly through the serried rows of legume and lettuce and onion, and into an orchard and through a couple of fields, the latter of which slopes downhill to where, at the bottom, oozes a large slough or, not to put too fine a point on metters, agricultural slurry pond. —
Slurry pond
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