material or philosophical –

nothing, that is, but the banishment of guests whose lavish welcome had expired. Slingsby was distantly intimate with everyone, to all appearances equally charmed by the lot of us but just as equally indifferent. Clad in the habits of privilege he showed no sign of having had a past other than that of his dynasty. Convenient amnesia was the game. Wielding the grip of Agrippa on the Gauls, he shook my hand and turned away. Such is the measure of courtesy precisely rationed to departing guests. Freed from his terse hospitality, a bunch of us made good our liberty, tight in the passing togetherness of operational necessity. Fragrant festoons of wisteria, the Darcy-Bingley sisters clung to us, seemingly fearful of bees they might be forced to satisfy if left behind. Crammed in the Rolls to the station we complacently allowed ourselves a song (Humpsalum, bumpsalum! Absalom, my bonny boy!), although the chauffeur seemed somewhat begrudging of compliments. Perhaps he hadn’t an aesthetic bent, Spirit of Diesel, not Ecstasy. So then we sang the Internationale! Vauncey had settled his headache on my shoulder, but was coming back to life,

98