“I don’t see why we all have to eat here in the dining room together at the same table!” Avery complained. “It is so horrible. I feel just like a pig who is led to the trough to slop with the whole drove! The outer house is never here! Why do I have to be here? Dr. Quintland says that it is fine if I dine alone.”
“Oh, you little liar. He says no such thing,” Abercrombie Wolcott said.
“Why, of course, he does. I am one of his favorites. It’s my reward for being good.”
“Good, my Aunt Betsy’s bottom.”
“Oh, applesauce! Mr. Know-It-All,” Avery said, placing a cigarette in her holder. “This place bores me to tears. I don’t think I can stand it much longer! Abercrombie, you bindlestiff! You bore me, too! Hop a train and hobo to another room! Mind-numbing boob!”
Avery was sitting on a low bench beside the dining room fireplace. Her legs were crossed, one hand on her hip, wrist slightly curved, her elegant fingers emphasizing the tiny waist beneath them; her other hand lovingly fondled an extremely long cigarette holder crafted from an exotic, highly decorative material. Her shining, ruby lips puckered in an exaggerated pout, drawing the holder further into her mouth. Her dark, short hair exaggerated her pale, flawless skin.
She hiked a shin over one knee, throwing the hemline of her above-the-knee dress dangerously high and showing quite a bit of thigh and silk black stocking. Her eyes, darkly lined with makeup, stared brazenly out at all in the room, daring anyone to say anything to her.
“Oh, goodness! Avery! Please behave, dear. I want to enjoy my meal,” someone said.
“Oh, Avery! You know the real lunatics live in the outer cottage. That crowd would never be permitted to eat with us. I hear them screaming, sometimes. At least, I think I do. You know, when the wind is right. Heh. Heh.
But, what was I talking about? Oh! I know,” Abercrombie Wolcott said with a flourish of his hand, “you are constantly unhappy. It is always something with you. Finish your cigarette. And be a good sport. If I can be a good boy, you can be a good girl. I wish to eat, but that won’t happen until we are all present and accounted for at the table.”
Wolcott unfurled his napkin with a wave of his wrist and floated it neatly to his lap.
“Why can’t you just sit down and enjoy your meal like the rest of us?” said another.
“Because,” Avery said testily, “I want to eat out in the tennis pavilion.”
“Tennis pavilion? Got a little match play this evening, eh, Avery?” George asked.
“Oh, close your head, Crupple Man. I simply enjoy the view,” Avery said.
“My dear girl, the only view you enjoy is populated with males beating their chests, scraping at the earth with their hooves, and parading their masculinity before you like willing sacrifices before your altar! Be a chum! Spill your guts! Tell us who you are meeting at the pavilion, won’t you?”
Wolcott slammed down his fork, thought better of this action, cleared his throat, and exclaimed, “Let us talk of other things. What? What shall we talk about? Oh, I know. The headlines! There was a bombing on Wall Street, today. Nasty thing! Most horrible! Anarchist, most likely.”
“What is this world coming to?” someone near the end of the table interjected.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake! Abercrombie! Do you really think that is an appropriate subject to discuss while eating?” Avery screamed. “I told you to stuff a sock in it before I give you the bum’s rush!”
“Please, children! Let’s play nice. We’re all under the same roof.”
There was an audible rustle as the door of the dining room swung open.
“Well,” said Mrs. Hood, entering late as usual, “I see that we are all here.”
“Yes, we’re here on time, Mrs. Hood. You know it’s the doctor’s rule that no meal is served until everyone is seated,” Avery said testily. “I made it back from my walk on time.”
“Excuse me, Avery,” Mrs. Hood said airily.
“A pox on the doctor’s rules,” George muttered under his breath. “Trouble in the lady’s room again, Mrs. Hood?”
Mr. Clive Birmingham-Hill looked angrily at everyone at the table, refusing to speak a word. He was a round man, with spectacles that he kept propped on the end of his nose for the sole purpose of looking down at anyone who crossed his field of vision.
“Let me introduce you all to our latest arrival,” Mrs. Hood said, breezily, ignoring the ill crew about her. “This is Mr. F. V. Flix.
He is here for a little respite, like most of us, and I am sure that you will all make him feel very welcome,” she said with gusty enthusiasm, entirely too exaggerated for the situation.
“Lunch is served,” a servant announced.
“Oh good!” said Mrs. Hood. “I’m sure we’re all starved!”
“I’ll just bet you are! The notoriety of your peculiar appetites precedes you, madam,” muttered George.
“George!” echoed a voice across the table.
Mr. Birmingham-Hill looked like he was going to faint.
George could not help but grin maliciously.