Can you believe the latest piece by Wadworth? I can’t believe the magazine would publish such rubbish. The man paused at his self-professed delightful rhyme as he spread some marjoram on a piece of perfectly toasted bread. Give me documentaries any old day- the real world is so much better than the mental playthings in some men’s minds. Did you see the one featuring baseball? It was wonderful, simply wonderful.
I, for one, can’t believe the author would use such a blase and trite character to make a point, his companion offered, pouring himself a cup of Earl Grey tea.
I dare say he used a hammer when a feather would have been more fitting- and the metaphor, Good Lord the metaphor. The only thing he extended was my patience. At this, both fell into the Cambridge laughter esteemed world-wide for its haughtiness.
A figure appeared in the doorway. More tea, sir? the complacent yet tired voice echoed across the large room.
Why yes, Williford, that would be resplendent. The butler approached and began to place the piping hot tea on the table. No, Williford, not like that- do it like the butlers do it in Oxford. Must I show you everything? Then, to his companion’s great delight, the man stood up and held the tea, bending over perfectly while placing it on the table. Remember not to make eye contact, Williford- it’s quite rude to stare at your master during a public gathering.
Yes, sir, the butler said, before disappearing to scrub the kitchen.
Help is so difficult to find these days the man apologized, I dare think I’m clever enough to survive on my own without any help. Wouldn’t that be scandalous?
If any man could do it, it would be you his companion stated before attempting to sip his tea in the most clever fashion possible.
Words that meant nothing continued to float throughout the room for the better part of an hour- criticisms of artists long dead, remarks made about Shakespeare’s tragedies- too sad by half– and a defense of the camera as being far superior to any painter’s brush- give me realism any day- these paintings that amuse a handful of people are worthless- burn them all and take a picture of it and I would hang it in my chateau! This continued until the man clunched his paunch– are you feeling ill- why I’ll kill that Williford the man can’t cook eggs to save his life.
Williford! the man shouted Williford. A figure quickly- perhaps too quick- appeared in the doorway.
Fetch the physician at once- I don’t feel right at all!
I don’t think that will help, sir- you’ll be dead within five minutes, due to the poison in your system.
You poured it yourself, sir? Remember? A grin spread across the butler’s face.
Ye Gods what have you done the man said, fumbling around on the ground now, his face in his hands.
Oh don’t worry, the butler said, I’m sure you’ll think of something clever.