'Why, only the other day my husband and I were indulging in a spot of Whist with the Ambassador in the drawing room at the Embassy. Darling Humphrey was droning on, as he is wont to do, about the fine architectural heritage of the town in general and the Embassy building in particular, waxing lyrical about the giant porticos, the stately colonnades and the delicate cornicing to be found within.
'The Ambassador and I were hardly listening, disrespectful though it may be to admit such a thing, and when Humphrey left the room for a minute or two in order to answer a call of nature, the illustrious gentleman leant across, planted his hand firmly on my upper thigh and, looking me full in the eyes, made me promise to make my excuses this evening after dinner (I decided in a trice that I could complain of a headache or somesuch) and slip away from the assembled gathering so that we might meet in his chambers for a post-prandial glass or two of brandy, and maybe a spot of spontaneous entertainment of our own invention if the time was right and our hearts felt mutually inflamed by the idea.
'I have to admit, my dears, that the very thought of an hour or two spent alone in the company of the great man elicits within me emotions of a thoroughly unladylike nature. Indeed, I feel quite lightheaded at the notion.'
With this, Mrs. Horwill leant back and rested her ample frame against the elegant brocade back of the sofa, breathing rather too rapidly for comfort and frantically fanning her flushed cheeks with a small, painted silk fan which had previously been concealed about her voluptuous person.
'Tell me, my sweet,' she said breathlessly, looking expectantly at a sultry brunette by the name of Mariette, 'would it be possible to partake of a little glass of something to soothe my nerves? Maybe a small brandy, or even a soupcon of Schnapps?'
'Mais non Madame!' exclaimed Mariette with mock horror (the twinkle in her big brown eyes gave a clue to the fact that she was quite obviously highly amused, despite the severity of her tone). 'Alcohol is strictly forbidden at the Academy (but not within its grounds, I thought with glee as I remembered my sensual little dejeuner sur l'herbe with Nicole, Michel and Antoine a few days earlier, and how our randy foursome had polished off several generous measures of champagne and red wine on that lazy, hazy, sexy afternoon), but if you will permit me, I'd love to share with you a letter I received this morning from my dear brother, Jamie.
'He and I are twins and, as you might expect, we share more than our looks! He tells me absolutely everything and always has done, and since he's a very naughty boy indeed with a quite spectacular passion for pretty young girls, his letters to me are often of a thoroughly explicit nature. Indeed, the one I'm about to read you made me blush to the very roots of my hair when I first saw it. Anyway, here goes!'
Mariette's sparkling eyes and eager demeanour gave a lie to and quite overshadowed her modest protestations of embarrassment. Tossing back her bonny brown curls, withdrawing two or three crumpled, well-read sheets from the bodice of her dress and clearing her throat in readiness, she began:
'“My darling sister, Mariette, I am aching to recount to you a randy little anecdote told to me the other day by dear old Bertie. He and I had been enjoying a glass or two of beer in the open air with some friends of ours, when suddenly he came out with a tale to make your hair curl and put roses in your cheeks! The circumstances were rather as follows:
'“'It looks like it's going to rain,' observed Cristabel, who had been studying the clouds over the distant mountains.
'“'They say that if you can see the Eisberg clearly from here before 10 in the morning, then it will rain before luncheon,' said Antoinette.
'“'And if you can't see it, then it must be raining already,' added Monsieur la Rochelle, with his customary dry sense of humour.
'“'What's all this?' asked Bertie, who had evidently been dozing underneath the laurel tree and had just now awoken with a start.
'“'I said it looks like rain.' said Cristabel.
'“Bertie picked up his half-drunk glass of beer, and held it up against the sky.
'“'My word, you're right,' he said at length, after studying the pale fluid intently for some while. 'It certainly does look like rain. With, I might add, just the very faintest flavour of hops.'
'“We all laughed uproariously at this gem of Bertie's wit. Another bottle of champagne was broached, and again we drank deeply. Bertie, however, topped up his glass with beer. He came from a long-established line of brewers in Wiltshire, and I was touched by his devotion to the beverage that made their name.
'“'I say, Portland, old chap!' he called at length. 'Let me pose you a question. Why is this glass of beer-of whose quality I am distinctly not enamoured-like making love in a punt? Let's see if a Cambridge man can answer that one, eh? Let's put a fiver on it to make things more interesting.'
'“Lord Portland, not the brightest spark of Edwardian England's manhood, looked puzzled. But the natural instincts of the sportsman rendered him incapable of refusing a challenge.
'“'Have a swig yourself, my dear fellow,' urged Bertie. 'It might get the old grey matter ticking over. Though not as well, I might add, as if you were drinking our very own Celebration Ale, which we brewed especially to mark the Coronation of our present King. That sir, was a beer as fine as any that I have ever tasted.'
'“Lord Portland took the proffered glass and sipped reflectively. 'Why is this beer like making love in a punt? Hmmmm, let me see now. It's dry, to be sure. Could that be it, I wonder? Wet and dry? No, surely not. It has a faintly nutty taste, though. Because only a fool would consider making love in a punt? No, it can't be.'
'“His brows furrowed again.
'“'Why is this beer like making love in a punt? Hmmmmm. Hmmmmm.' I thought I could almost hear the cog-wheels whirring around inside my head, but then he gave me the most outrageous wink.
'“'Why is this beer like making love in a punt, you ask?' He paused, and took a deep draught of the amber nectar. 'I'll tell you why, Bertie,' he said in a quiet undertone. 'Because it's fucking near water that's why! Eh? That's a good 'un, what? Thought you'd got me there, didn't you? Fucking near water, that's the answer to your riddle! Come on now, old boy, cough up! Let's see the colour of your money!'
'“Bertie paid up in great good humour as befits a gentleman. 'Actually,' he began, 'my question does put me in mind of another little riddle of my own, that actually took place some few years ago, when I was in Venice. I had been staying with the Powells-excellent people, who had come originally from Bicester-and one evening we went, as one might, for a gondola cruise on the canals.
'“'Venice, is, as you will know, a most delightful place, especially when the softer light of early autumn adds its own special qualities. The evening was made even more delightful because I was seated at the rear of our gondola, squeezed in between the two Powell daughters, Rebecca and Suzanna, twin sisters of some seventeen years.
'“'For over an hour we passed along the canals and lagoons, admiring the splendours of the buildings as they were lit up by the setting sun. It grew chilly, and at length rugs were passed out by Mrs. Powell. I was given a particularly large and thick one which I spread loosely over the laps of the two girls and myself, and we resumed our journey tucked up in perfect snugness within its capacious folds.
'“'After a while I became conscious of a movement on my leg. At first it was no more than an animal might make, as when a cat brushes herself against you. Then I was aware that it was moving gradually up my thigh. Thinking there might be some insect crawling about beneath the rug, I wriggled slightly to try and shake it off, but was hampered both by my being closely hemmed in by the Powell girls and my wish not to alarm them. You can imagine the panic that would have been caused had I said I suspected there was a spider under the rug.