Startled, Clive looked up from the lawn and did a little quick mental calculation. Tarnation! This was the day that the ladies of the Charlotte T. Watson Garden Club were coming to admire his plumbago.
No one could have been more discomfited than he. Except possibly the Vicar, on whom he was at the moment resting, or Mrs. Vicar, second from left.
I can feel the fox furs bristling as we speak... Jx
ReplyDeleteYes, but Mrs. Ffrench-Llewellyn, on Mrs. Vicar's left, was most definitely amused. "This'll show the stubby little bitch," she thought.
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