Exactly one month before, it had been the eve of the annual closing of Blades. On the next day, September 1st, those members who were still unfashionably in London would have to pig it for a month at Whites or Boodle’s. Whites they considered noisy and ‘smart,’ Boodle’s too full of superannuated country squires who would be talking of nothing but the opening of the partridge season. For Blades, it was one month in the wilderness. But there it was. The staff, one supposed, had to have their holiday. More important, there was some painting to be done and there was dry-rot in the roof.
M., sitting in the bow window looking out over St James’s Street, couldn’t care less. He had two weeks’ trout fishing on the Test to look forward to and, for the other two weeks, he would have sandwiches and c
