Читать книгу Gone With the Windsors - Laurie Graham - Страница 166

This morning, a treasure hunt for eggs, each couple being provided with a list of clues written in aquamarine ink. I was paired with young Tom Mitford, who’s just back from Heidelberg and speaks very highly of the German nation. Our clues led us to the orangerie, where, hanging from a tree, we found a perfect little egg-shaped crystal pendant for me and a tiny basket with a plover’s egg for Tom.

A simple, rustic luncheon was served on the lawn: spit-roasted kid and pineapple ice. Then Philip took us up in his airplane, one at a time, for an aerial view of the estate. What an accomplished man! He makes one feel nothing is too much trouble, and he’s tireless. Everything must be perfect. Last evening, he had the Union flag hauled down, because the red in it clashed so violently with the orange sunset.

Musical diversions after dinner. Philip’s wonderful dusky servants brought in thimbles of coffee, which they somehow set ablaze, and then the coal porter, who, I must say, is very well-scrubbed considering his trade, claimed the piano and played and sang for quite an hour. He was really rather good. I’ve advised him to think of taking it up professionally. There must be a great many people in London who’d be willing to pay him, and it would surely be more agreeable than portering coal.

Philip said, “Maybell, you’re a rrriot!” He’s so easy to amuse. I think I could very happily be Lady Sassoon.