The new upstairs maid was impossible, fumed the Major. His afternoon tea had been an iron ritual among the staff: Oolong, one sugar, in the East Westfordshire Hunt Club china cup, 3:47 sharp. And here it was, four o’clock, and no tea.
Outside his window, the clatter of automobiles replaced the clip-clop of the surrey, while the grating strains of some infernal racket called “jazz” emanated from the parlor downstairs. Anarchy, that’s what it was — a world gone mad.
The clock in the hall finished chiming. Still no tea. His eyelids grew heavy. He would speak to Mrs. Grimby tomorrow about the gramophone, he resolved, yawning. Tomorrow would see matters put right, and all… all would be… be well…
If you’re still reading, Sarah S., thanks for the pictures, and sorry it took so long.