![]() ![]() Through the fog of his inebriation he seemed to recall that there had been celebrations at White’s Club with a satisfyingly largish band of cronies, considering the fact that it was very early in February and not at all a fashionable time to be in London. He was lounging in his favorite soft leather chair to one side of the hearth in the library of his town house, he was pleased to observe, but he was not alone, as he really ought to be at this time of night, whatever the devil time that was. He suspected that by now it was well past midnight, which fact would mean that his birthday was over and done with, as were his careless, riotous, useless twenties. He was celebrating his thirtieth birthday, or at least he had been celebrating it. Maybe he had even gone as far as drinking the ocean dry. He was almost too bored to heave himself out of his chair in order to refill his glass at the sideboard across the room. All of which descriptors were basically the same thing, of course, but really he was bored to the marrow of his bones. ![]() Percival William Henry Hayes, Earl of Hardford, Viscount Barclay, was hugely, massively, colossally bored. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |