After taking a sip of his morning potato juice and putting aside the news sheet Lord Buxtingtoncheth motioned to the underbutler Digby.
“Pray tell my good man if you would, where is the Lady Anesthesia this morning?” he queried interrogatively.
Digby straightened the wastrels of his tunic coat.
“I am given to understand she is breakfasting in her room m’lud.”
Upstairs Lady Anesthesia sat up in bed. She’d tried to counter her insomnia with a novel, but after writing two chapters had given it up as hopeless.
Back in the dining room Lord Buxtingtoncheth’s eldest daughter Primrose, already dressed on flocculent muslin, entered, and promptly tripped over her sister Chrysanthemum. The son Hawthorne then entered and joined the dignified tangle of extremities on the Polynesian carpet.
–selection from Sceptre Over Skegness by R.A.L.B.G. Wavell, O.B.E.