“I dare say that that is not likely in Mortimer’s near future.”
“I never should have left Jamaica!” Mrs. Dixon let out an uncharacteristic shriek. “I tried to introduce him to some lovely girls at the Aubright party. What did he do?”
“He fell into the punch bowl, collapsing the table,” Mrs. Peabody remembered.
Mrs. Dixon’s face twisted into an unusual shape as the memory flashed across her mind. Mortimer bending at the waist sniffing the punch, his mustache dangerously close to the pink tinted liquid. Oh… and it was dear George who had been standing behind him. His cane had brushed up against Mortimer’s posterior leg, causing the overactive oaf to squeal like a guinea pig before belly flopping directly into the punch bowl.
“Yes,” Mrs. Dixon muttered. She took a slow breath and allowe
