TheCompleteMemoirsOfGeorgeSherston

PART FOUR: A DAY WITH THE
POTFORD

I

THE stiMMKR was over and the green months
were discarded like garments for which I had no
further use. Twiddling a pink second-class return
ticket to London in my yellow-gloved fingers (old
Miriam certainly had washed them jolly well) I
stared through the carriage window at the early
October landscape and ruminated on the opening
meet in November. My excursions to London were
infrequent, but 1 had an important reason for this one.
I was going to try on my new hunting clothes and my
new hunting boots. I had also got a seat for Kreisler's
concert in the afternoon, but classical violin music
was at present crowded out of my mind by the more
urgent business of the day,

1 felt as though I had an awful lot to do before
lunch, Which had I better go to first, I wondered
(jerking the window up as the train screeched into a
tunnel), (Iraxwcll or Kipward? To tell the truth I
was a bit nervous about both of them; for when I had
made my inaugural visits the individuals who patrolled
the interiors of those eminent establishments had
received me with such lofty condescension that I had
begun by feeling an intruder. My clothes, I feared,
had not quite the cut and style that was expected of
them by firms which had the names of reigning