Ambushed by the Crumpelmeyers, plagued by thoughts of Claude Blenkinsop and his wretched lecture, telephoned by the verger re matters of little worth but great tedium, and generally put upon by the Vestry committee and its doleful complaints, I felt ill prepared to face the advent of Primrose. This time, however, minus the giant chinchillas her arrival caused none of the commotion of the earlier occasion. She appeared punctually with minimum of fuss or luggage, spoke kindly to Bouncer, admired the kitchen’s polished tidiness, and even presented me with a bottle of (somewhat acrid) sherry. And although one never quite knows how things will proceed with Primrose, I was beginning to feel a moderate pleasure at the prospect of a ‘family’ evening. Hat removed and nose powdered, she returned to the sitting room grinning broadly. ‘I made a nice little packet on the sheep yesterday,’ she announced. ‘Sold four to some visiting Americans who seemed to think that English lambs looked so much “cuter”
