155 Ebury Street, S.W.
Dear Madam,
I am most anxious to write a life of the late illustrious Lady Maria Bobbin, a task which, I understand, has never yet been attempted, and one which I would devote all my energy and my poor talent to completing in a manner worthy of its subject. To do this with any degree of accuracy would however be impossible without access to those of her private papers, notably the fourteen volumes of her journal, which I assume still to be in existence at Compton Bobbin. It would be most kind and gratifying to me if you would consider lending me the said volumes – or, should you very naturally object to the idea of parting, even for a space, with documents so invaluable, perhaps you would give permission for me to reside in the local hostelry that I may study them in your house, whose atmosphere must yet I feel be redolent of Her. I would naturally work at this life in entire collaboration with yourself, submitting all proofs to you before publication.
If I trouble you, please forgive me and remember that I do so in the interests of Art and to the perpetuation of a memory which must ever be sacred to you, to me, and to all lovers of Verse.
Yours sincerely,
Paul Fotheringay.
It was unfortunate that Paul, in writing this letter, had allowed himself to fall victim to the intoxication of his own style. Lady Bobbin, M.F.H., J.P., opened it together with several appeals for new hens from farmers whose old ones had been removed by Mr Reynard. She read it over twice, found herself unfamiliar with such words as hostelry, redolent and collaboration, and handed it to her secretary, saying, ‘The poor chap’s batty, I suppose?’ The secretary, who occasionally read book reviews, said that Paul Fotheringay was a comic writer, and would be a most unsuitable person to undertake a life of Lady Maria. She was then instructed to answer his request, as well as those of the farmers, in the negative.
Meanwhile, Paul, never doubting the success of his letter, walked on air. His fingers itched to take pen in hand, to prove once and for all to those idiotic critics that he was a serious writer; and at the same time he looked forward greatly to the perusal of Lady Maria’s journal, feeling that it would provide the rarest intellectual treat. He went out and bought himself a collected edition of her works, so that he might re-read some of his favourites – ‘The Lament of Llywark Hen’, ‘Moorish Bridal Song’, ‘On the Death-bed of Wallace’, ‘To my Brother’, etc., which he did with his usual appreciation of her genius. Altogether his outlook on life became far more cheerful and optimistic than it had been before he went to see Amabelle Fortescue.
Alas, how dashed were his hopes when the letter for which he had been so eagerly waiting was found to contain the following abrupt refusal in the third person:
Compton Bobbin,
Compton on the Wold,
Gloucestershire.
Lady Bobbin regrets that she is unaware of the existence of any documents at Compton Bobbin which could interest Mr Fotheringay. She cannot enter into further correspondence on this subject.
Paul was stunned by this blow.
‘And then,’ he said to Amabelle, to whom he had gone immediately for consolation, ‘it is so rude and horrid, I feel terribly snubbed.’
‘From what I’ve always heard of that woman I’m not in the least surprised,’ said Amabelle. ‘I don’t want to be governessy, darling, but I do think it was a mistake for you to write off in such a very violent hurry. It would have been more sensible to find out what sort of person she was first, and what was likely to be the best method of approach.’
‘Yes, I see that now. But I was so excited when I thought of the journal in fourteen volumes that my one idea was to get hold of it as soon as I possibly could.’
‘It’s a pity you didn’t consult me, you know. Little Bobby Bobbin (Sir Roderick) is a great buddy of mine, and I’m sure he could have fixed it for you easily. After all, the journal belongs to him, doesn’t it?’
‘You don’t think he could smuggle it out of the house for me?’
‘He’d never dare to now, it wouldn’t be safe. You see, Lady Bobbin is in a very strong position as far as he is concerned because she has every penny of the money, and he’s terrified of getting into her bad books. She was a great heiress, a Miss Swallowfield (tea), and if old Hudson Bobbin hadn’t married her the place would have gone long ago, I believe. But surely you know Bobby, don’t you? Why didn’t you ask him about it?’
‘D’you mean that comic child from Eton who’s always here? Of course I know him quite well, but how could I have guessed his other name was Bobbin? It’s unnatural, Bobby Bobbin. Oh, dear, I do feel wretched.’
‘Poor old boy, it is boring for you.’
‘It’s far worse than boring,’ said Paul vehemently, ‘it’s the end of my literary career. From now onwards I am condemned to the life of a social parasite. If I can’t write the life of Lady Maria I shall never set pen to paper again. She is
