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"It's quite an idea for a Christmas party," said



Lady Blonze; "we must certainly do it here."

Sir Nicholas was not so enthusiastic. "Are you



quite sure, my dear, that you're wise in doing this

thing?" he said to his wife when they were alone



together. "It might do very well at the Mathesons, where

they had rather a staid, elderly house-party, but here it



will be a different matter. There is the Durmot flapper,

for instance, who simply stops at nothing, and you know



what Van Tahn is like. Then there is Cyril Skatterly; he

has madness on one side of his family and a Hungarian



grandmother on the other."

"I don't see what they could do that would matter,"



said Lady Blonze.

"It's the unknown that is to be dreaded," said Sir



Nicholas. "If Skatterly took it into his head to

represent a Bull of Bashan, well, I'd rather not be



here."

"Of course we shan't allow any Bible characters.



Besides, I don't know what the Bulls of Bashan really did

that was so very dreadful; they just came round and



gaped, as far as I remember."

"My dear, you don't know what Skatterly's Hungarian



imagination mightn't read into the part; it would be

small satisfaction to say to him afterwards: 'You've



behaved as no Bull of Bashan would have behaved.' "

"Oh, you're an alarmist," said Lady Blonze; I



particularly want to have this idea carried out. It will

be sure to be talked about a lot."



"That is quite possible," said Sir Nicholas.

* * * *



Dinner that evening was not a particularly lively

affair; the strain of trying to impersonate a self-



imposed character or to glean hints of identity from

other people's conduct acted as a check on the natural



festivity of such a gathering. There was a general

feeling of gratitude and acquiescence when good-natured



Rachel Klammerstein suggested that there should be an

hour or two's respite from "the game" while they all



listened to a little piano-playing after dinner.

Rachel's love of piano music was not indiscriminate, and



concentrated itself chiefly on selections rendered by her

idolised offspring, Moritz and Augusta, who, to do them



justice, played remarkably well.

The Klammersteins were deservedly popular as



Christmas guests; they gave expensive gifts lavishly on

Christmas Day and New Year, and Mrs. Klammerstein had



already dropped hints of her intention to present the

prize for the best enacted character in the game



competition. Every one had brightened at this prospect;

if it had fallen to Lady Blonze, as hostess, to provide



the prize, she would have considered that a little

souvenir of some twenty or twenty-five shillings' value



would meet the case, whereas coming from a Klammerstein

source it would certainly run to several guineas.



The close time for impersonation efforts came to an

end with the final withdrawal of Moritz and Augusta from



the piano. Blanche Boveal retired early, leaving the

room in a series of laboured leaps that she hoped might



be recognised as a tolerable imitation of Pavlova. Vera

Durmot, the sixteen-year-old flapper, expressed her



confident opinion that the performance was intended to

typify Mark Twain's famous jumping frog, and her



diagnosis of the case found general acceptance. Another

guest to set an example of early bed-going was Waldo



Plubley, who conducted his life on a minutely regulated

system of time-tables and hygienic routine. Waldo was a



plump, indolent young man of seven-and-twenty, whose

mother had early in his life decided for him that he was



unusually delicate, and by dint of much coddling and

home-keeping had succeeded in making him physically soft



and mentally peevish. Nine hours' unbroken sleep,

preceded by elaborate breathing exercises and other



hygienic ritual, was among the indispensable regulations




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