No Pearwood allowed.

Wilkers split off right away to find that Sandra he’d spoken of for the past week – and with the rest of my party content to park in the main entryway (lest anyone should fail to observe them in attendance) I let myself be carried away with the flow of lesser patrons.

It wasn’t so extravagant as to render the hors devures completely unrecognizable, but I spied more than one discreet napkin descend with a little bulge after doing it’s duty at a now substantially less occupied mouth.

In the end I settled for a few pieces of the less exotic fruit and a rather tart beverage in a lamentably small (but undeniably posh) glass.

A quaint little purse inquired politely whether I knew of an easily accessible garden where she might escape the general clamor. Being unfamiliar with the grounds myself, I directed the lady to Clarisse (still prominently displayed) suggesting that since she dined not infrequently at the invitation of our host’s youngest daughter, she might be better aquatinted with the house and grounds.

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