The Summer of Sir Lancelot

been illustrating his talk.
    ‘I must see Mrs Chuffey in the kitchen,‘ announced Mrs Nightrider, rising quickly.
    ‘I am glad you have good weather for your journey home this morning,‘ added Mr Nightrider as his children disappeared as well.
    Spreading The Times across his knees in the armchair, the surgeon felt for his pipe. His departure had been delayed further through a generous decision to spend Sunday taking Euphemia to the Zoo, the Tower of London, the British Museum, and Madame Tussaud‘s. She had expressed herself extremely interested in each.
    ‘As I‘m here, Geoff, I might as well look into Lord‘s before driving on west,‘ he mentioned.
    Mr Nightrider groaned inwardly — but so loudly it nearly resonated through.
    ‘I do not in the slightest wish to appear inhospitable, Lancelot,‘ he said quickly, ‘but I had planned a small luncheon party here today for Anthony Waterfall. The author, you know.‘
    ‘I hope you didn‘t imagine I would intrude?‘ Sir Lancelot started operations on the crossword. ‘I shall be taking a luncheon basket to Lord‘s.‘
    ‘Excellent!‘ exclaimed Mr Nightrider. There is no condiment, I believe, to match fresh air. I shall be bringing my own tea to Wimbledon tomorrow. I am much looking forward to it.‘
    ‘ “Poet asleep on the heather”,‘ murmured Sir Lancelot, chewing his pencil.
    ‘I am a little concerned about the health of my daughter Felicity.‘ Mr Nightrider felt he might as well slip in a quick consultation before his guest left. ‘Since starting that temporary job in the Chelsea bookshop, she has become peculiarly fidgety and feverish. St Vitus dance, do you think? These last few days she has been quite unable to keep still for a moment. I trust no form of tubercular infection? The thyroid gland, I understand in young persons — ‘
    ‘ “Kipling”!‘ announced Sir Lancelot, writing it in. ‘ “Kip-ling”. Felicity off colour? I‘d give her a good old-fashioned dose of salts.‘
    ‘And the pain in my own side is no better,‘ Mr Nightrider added gloomily. ‘I have also developed the most distressing symptom of waking at night with a violent start.‘
    ‘It‘s probably your missus kicking you. Yes, Mrs Chuffey? For my luncheon basket? Something quite simple — say, smoked salmon sandwiches and a bottle of hock.‘
    ‘My own guests will be obliged to make do on potted shrimps,‘ observed Mr Nightrider pointedly as the door shut.
    ‘I‘d have thought you could lash out a bit more, Geoff. After all, you‘re living here at a peppercorn rent.‘
    ‘Some peppercorns!‘ he grunted, reaching for his parliamentary hat and brolly. But at least, he told himself, he would have an absentee landlord on his return.
    Sir Lancelot continued operating on the crossword. He had great fun changing a carthorse into an orchestra and pig mines into impinges, and had just transformed pied mice into an epidemic when the door slowly opened.
    ‘Uncle Lancelot — ‘ Felicity edged in.
    He looked up. He neither approved nor disapproved of his brother-in-laws daughter. She was a tall, thin, pale, sandy female, given to acne. She was not a girl who found herself noticed much by young men. Indeed, she was not a girl who found herself noticed much by anybody.
    ‘Uncle Lancelot, have you views on the Arts?‘ she inquired.
    Sir Lancelot frowned. Felicity stood twisting her fingers round a grubby handkerchief Apart from the acne, the poor dear had chronic sinusitis.
    ‘Daddy‘s terribly keen on the Arts, now he‘s on this Cultural Committee,‘ she continued quickly. ‘And of course every year he goes to the Royal Academy. But I‘ve begun to wonder if our civilization isn‘t cruel to the more unconventional younger poets and things.‘
    ‘It always has been, my dear,‘ replied Sir Lancelot patiently. ‘I am perfectly certain Shakespeare much disliked having to hold all those beastly horses.‘
    She gave a sniff. ‘You mean, Uncle Lancelot, they are just as deserving of a subsidy as — well, the National Theatre and the Festival Hall?‘
    ‘I have never believed any talent should be buried. If it turns out to be counterfeit, it will ring false soon enough.‘
    ‘Thank you, Uncle Lancelot!‘ She gave her colourless smile. ‘Oh, and Uncle Lancelot — do you believe in class distinctions?‘
    ‘My dear girl, don‘t be ridiculous. To a medical man there are only two classes. Alive and dead.‘
    ‘Thank you, Uncle Lancelot,‘ she ended