Monday, February 28, 2011

couture handbags on salejust driven down from London in his motor

“Come and say ‘How do you do?’ to your new tutor,” said Lady Gertrude, as though to a child of six. “Give him your right hand—that’s it.” He came awkwardly towards me, juicy couture bagsholding out his hand, then put it behind him and then shot it out again suddenly, leaning his juicy couture bagsbody forward as he did so. I felt a sudden shame for this poor ungraceful creature. “How-d’you-do?” he said. “I expect they forgot to send the car for you, didn’t they? The last tutor walked out and didn’t juicy couture handbags on saleget here until half past two. Then they said I was mad, so he went away again. Have they told you I’m mad yet?” “No,” I said decidedly, “of course not.” “Well, they will then. But perhaps they have already, and you didn’t like to tell me. You’juicy couture bagsre a gentleman, aren’t you? That’s what grandfather said: ‘He’s a bad hat, but at least he’s a gentleman.’ But you needn’t worry about me. They all say I’m mad.” Anywhere else this might have caused some uneasiness, but the placid voice of Lady Gertrude broke in: “Now, you mustn’t talk like that Wholesale Burberry Bagsto Mr. Vaughan. Come and have a peppermint, dear.” And she looked at me as though to say, “What did I tell you?” Quite suddenly I decided to take on the job after all. An hour later we were in the train. I had the Duke’s cheque for £150 preliminary expenses in my burberry outletpocket; the boy’s preposterous little wicker box was in the rack over his head. “I say,” he said, “what am I to call you?” “Well, most of my friends call me Ernest.” “May I really do that?” “Yes, of course. What shall I call you?” He looked doubtful. “Grandfather and the aunts call me Stayle; everyone else calls me ‘my Lord’ when they are about and ‘Bats’ when we are alone. It’s short for ‘Bats in the Belfry’, you know.” “But haven’t you got a Christian name?” He had to think before he answered. “Yes—George Theodore Verney.” “Well, I’m going to call you George.” The air was heavy with the smell of chrysanthemums, there was a gilt clock under a glass case on the chimneypiece and everywhere in the room stiff little assemblages of china and bric-a-brac. One might expect to find such a room in Lancaster Gate or Elm Park Gardens where the widow of some provincial knight knits away her days among trusted servants. In front of the fire sat an old lady, eating an apple. "My dear, this is Mr. Vaughan, who is going to take Stayle abroad-my sister, Lady Emily. Mr. Vaughan has juicy couture handbags on salejust driven down from London in his motor."

No comments:

Post a Comment