The Summer of Sir Lancelot

Cholmondeley‘s Chutney and all the other things you keep seeing advertised on the telly. Quite a little empire he‘s built up in the preserves line, so I believe. A very tough nut, too, by all accounts.‘
    ‘He‘s a poacher,‘ Sir Lancelot interrupted. ‘A common poacher. Look here, I‘ve fished Witches‘ Pool long enough to know every damn minnow in it by name — ‘
    ‘Oh, Witches‘ Pool?‘ Mr Evans managed a little smile. ‘Frankly, Sir Lancelot, it‘s always been a wonder to us down at the office how you managed to get away with it so long.‘
    ‘Who the hell‘s side are you on, anyway?‘ demanded Sir Lancelot, as Caesar might have put it to Brutus when the dagger went in.
    ‘The side of truth,‘ returned Mr Evans glancing heavenwards, as if to make sure the remark was noted in the right quarters.
    ‘Ye gods!‘ Sir Lancelot wiped his face with the yellow silk handkerchief. ‘Come inside. I want a drink.‘
    ‘Alas! I never touch a drop.‘ The solicitor was a strict teetotaller, except for the whisky he swallowed for colds, to which he was a martyr. ‘But if you want to indulge-‘
    ‘Perhaps you could manage just one study,‘ broke in the persistent tones of Mr Finnimore from the garden. After all, he had once photographed charging big game in Africa. ‘Where you are in the window will be quite delightful, I assure you.‘
    There is a time when even the most steadfast martyr is liable to cave in and tell the lads with the iron bars to lay off, now he comes to think of it he was probably in the wrong all the time. Sir Lancelot gave a sigh.
    ‘Very well,‘ he muttered. ‘Very well.‘
    ‘Perhaps one leg over the windowsill?‘ invited Mr Finnimore, producing his Leica and brightening up.
    ‘Like that?‘ demanded the subject dully.
    ‘Perfect! A posture of elegant repose. If you can just hold it... Perhaps a little farther forward... ‘
    ‘Ahhhhhhhh!‘ said Sir Lancelot.
    The Vicar, cycling up the drive, had his mind on the best strategy for extracting the cost of a new church stove from Sir Lancelot. It would be the hard touch, he reflected sadly, on a morning that put stoves as laughably out of mind as plum puddings. Perhaps something could be managed with the fruits of the earth, Harvest Home, the countryside glittering prettily under six feet of snow, and the organist‘s bronchitis. But at least he was in for a decent lunch, and the claret - w hich he took for his blood — was the best in the diocese.
    ‘Oh, horror!‘ he cried.
    The scene by the front door resembled the final stages in the Plaza de Tows. Sir Lancelot lay on the flower-bed, bellowing. Dancing round were Lady Spratt, that pretty little niece, and Mr Evans of all people, trying to set him on his feet. On the fringe a little man with a camera was recording the event for posterity.
    ‘Flat, damn you, leave me flat!‘ Sir Lancelot was advising his ministering angels. ‘Do you want to wreck what‘s left of my blasted intervertebral discs?‘
    ‘I‘ll run and phone Dr Tolly,‘ offered Euphemia breathlessly.
    ‘No you bloody well won‘t! I‘m not having that callow charlatan lay a finger on me.‘
    ‘Well, you can‘t lie here all night,‘ Lady Spratt pointed out. ‘You‘ll get damp.‘
    ‘Haven‘t you people got the nous of a troop of Boy Scouts? Go and get something hard and flat to shift me on.‘
    ‘Hard?‘ pondered Lady Spratt. ‘Flat?‘
    ‘Screw the ruddy lid off the grand piano, if you like.‘
    ‘Why, here‘s the Vicar,‘ she broke off affably. ‘My poor husband‘s gone and sprained his old back again. Will you be a good Samaritan while we find some sort of litter? Thank you so much. Come along, everybody, we must search the lumber room. I‘m sure we‘ll discover an old billiard table, or something.‘
    ‘My dear, dear Sir Lancelot,‘ sympathized the Vicar, kneeling beside him and for the moment regretfully shelving stoves. ‘I am indeed sorry to find you in this plight. Only today I was thinking with quite unforgivable envy of your enjoying these lovely mornings beside that delightful Witches‘ Pool of yours —‘
    A scream came from the kitchen.
    ‘Heaven save us!‘ The cook had observed the holy gentleman with hands clasped over the casualty. ‘He‘s dead! The old b‘s dead! And after all my trouble with those sandwiches, too!‘
     

3
     
    Half-hours between young ladies and young gentlemen before breakfast, according to the novelist Trollope, arc very serious