“Take this road for instance,” said Bunny.  He was pointing with one hand while he held the umbrella in the other.  “It’s very narrow and I think two autos would find it real hard to pass and if your Rolls Royce should meet a farm wagon…well, I don’t like to think of the wreck.”

“Yes it is narrow, Bun,” said Martin, “but to widen it would mean destroying the hawthorn hedges on both sides and the farmers would lose some land…then there’s the cost.”

“But what is the cost of having traffic held up, not to mention the cost in lives and injuries?”

Martin looked down the familiar road that led from Branksome-le-Bourne to nowhere in particular.  There was no traffic at all, thought Martin.  Oh not quite, here comes Mrs Flower on her ancient bicycle.  Martin waved.

“Good afternoon your lordship.  Good for the ducks.” Martin agreed and she wheezed on.

“It’s only logical that the shortest route is a straight line,” said Dwight taking up Bunny’s thread.

“Well it would be a big job to straighten all the roads in England.”

“Well what about that bump on the road from the village to your gates?  You know the one.” Martin did.  The road had a jog in its outline for no particular reason.  “You own the land on both sides, don’t you?” Martin nodded.  “And a few hundred yards of hedge could be replaced quite cheaply with posts and barbed wire or you could plant new hedges.  Are the trees there of any great value?”

Martin thought about it.  “I think there are wild cherries and some suckers of elm.”

“Well, there you are, you wouldn’t miss them would you?  And you would have a nice straight run down to the village.  Think of the time you’d save!”

Martin thought about the old trap that they still took to the station to meet the train and the bicycle rides with Stephen when they needed to go down to the village.

“Or I could leave the house earlier or arrive a bit later.”

“But it’s so inefficient!” cried Bunny.  “It is a mistake—like the appendix in the human body. It’s in the way of progress.  Back home all the roads are as straight as we can make ’em and if they aren’t we straighten them or move the buildings back a few yards.”

“Yes, but yours is a new country.  These roads are hundreds of year’s old—even older.”

“It didn’t stop the Romans building proper roads.”

“That’s true,” conceded Martin, and couldn’t really mount an argument for maintaining the crooked roads on his estate, except that he would be sad if they were all straight and efficient.  “I suppose it’s tradition; people in England, especially the country folk, enjoy their traditions and are suspicious of new things—even if they have to suffer lanes like a dog’s hind leg.

“Then I feel very sorry for them,” pontificated Bunny, “for with an attitude like that they’ll never get anywhere.”

“But it’s picturesque, Bunny.”

“That’s an English disease and you said so yourself: look at all those new suburban houses in London you were complaining about.”  That was a low blow, but he was correct in quoting Martin’s assessment of Hillingdon when they had driven out to view Windsor.

They turned around and called the dogs and trudged back towards the house.

“When will it stop raining and summer begin?” asked Dwight.  

****** 

The much anticipated visit of the two Americans had cheered the boys.  Jack Rabberts Wilbur (Bunny to his friends) and Dwight Sleeper Hoyt (“Rip” to Bunny at times) had been such boon companions in the strangeness of the American Middle West in 1917 that Martin and Stephen had written letters imploring them to come over.  Bunny had inherited his father’s businesses in Chicago and Dr Hoyt, buttressed by his family’s fortune from a lock company, was just about to take up private practice, having completed internship at the Methodist Wesley Memorial Hospital.

The boys had driven to Southampton to collect them in Martin’s Rolls Royce and brought them straight (well, as straight as possible on the inefficient English roads) to Croome through the sodden but beautiful countryside of Hampshire and Dorset.  The wild country of the New Forest, Martin explained, had seen much clearing with the inexhaustible demand for timber during the War— just another tragic loss in a land of so many.

Like many other visitors they were anxious to know how much of the surrounding land belonged to Martin and were dumb struck at their first sight of the great house through the trees. Both the Americans had inquiring minds, especially when presented with something that they could not ignore.  “So if the folks who live in these little houses don’t want to work for you they can leave?” asked Bunny.

Martin looked at him to see if he was serious.  “Of course Bun.  Not everybody who lives in these cottages works for me.  The ones who do often have a cottage tied to their position, but most of the land is tenanted to farmers.  We meet together to discuss crops and livestock and repairs to their cottages, but they are free to make a success or failure of their own farm.”

“You could give the lease to someone else, Mala,” said Stephen.

“That’s true, but mostly neighbouring farmers will sub-let the fields of any who are too old to farm.”

“And what do they call you?” asked Dwight.

“Mostly ‘your lordship’,” replied Martin, trying not to go red.

“And you can you judge them and send them to prison?” asked Dwight again.

“No, of course not.  But I can act as a magistrate—usually with two others.  That’s like your elected commissioners and mayors in some towns.  I can issue warrants, impose fines, set bail and petty things like that.  A proper judge deals with criminal cases.”

“So you can’t say ‘off with his head’?” laughed Bunny.

“No, more’s the pity”.

“If you don’t mind me saying, Martin,” said Dwight who had been thinking about this. “That’s not very fair.  You— I mean someone like you— could have a dislike for a neighbour and not grant them bail, for example; you’re not elected by the people.”

“That’s true, although they could appeal to a higher court and there is usually more than just me.  When it’s time to elect judges and sheriffs in small communities at home, isn’t there great opportunity for favouritism and corruption?”

Dwight had to concede that this had been known even in Chicago. 

*****

The reunion with Chilvers was very heart-warming. “I look back on my trip to America with great fondness, Mr Wilbur and I still receive many offers of positions, including one from your aunt, Mr Hoyt.  I have not, however adopted the naval uniform of Mrs Jackson McCoy’s butler as you can see.”

Carlo was pressed into service as their valet while Chilvers himself would see to Martin and Stephen as there were no other guests at present.  The reunion with Carlo was a happy one, although none voiced their remembrances of their last night in Chicago together. 

“What do you use all these rooms for?”  Bunny kept asking as they did the grand tour.

“I can’t really say, Bun, I mean I’ve just inherited it all and this is what I’ve known all my life.  Each of my ancestors kept rebuilding and adding until my father’s time.  For me and those who will follow, it will be a matter of maintaining what’s here; the era of building is over.”

“But not quite, Mala,” said Stephen.  “In your time you’ve added the tennis courts and the new garden and electric light and central heating.”

Martin hadn’t thought of it that way; he had been comparing himself to the 7^th Earl who constructed the baroque ballroom and the Chinese bedroom, and the First Marquess who built the wing that contained the red drawing room.  They moved outside to Martin’s new sunk garden which was now quite well established and in which Martin himself liked to spend the odd hour weeding and planting and tying things up.

“Why this is sure swell,” said Dwight as he sniffed the scent of thyme, catmint and camomile where these plants had escaped the strictures of the garden beds and encroached on the old brick-and-stone paths.  “This is a real English garden.”  Martin knew what he meant; the formal garden with informal planting was very English and this garden shared an affinity with more humble ones such as that surrounding Miss Tadrew’s cottage. “It’s my favourite spot in the house, Martin!” concluded Dwight with real feeling.

The rain threatened to hold off for a short time and Chilvers brought afternoon tea out to the pavilion by the tennis courts, which was gained by Martin’s new pergola walk.  They discussed the possibility of playing tennis, but decided to go riding instead.  A trip to the stables involved Martin explaining how he had gone into business with O’Brien who was breeding horses for sale and how well the venture had gone during the War.  Bunny was very interested and asked lots of questions.  They rode as far as Pendleton and on their return leg called in at The Feathers.

The pub gave Bunny enough colour to satisfy him, although he did not think the local yokels grovelled sufficiently to their lord, nor did Martin lash them cruelly with his riding crop, when compared to the novels he had read.  Dwight kept suggesting helpful improvements that the landlord might make in order to attract more customers, especially those with deep pockets in the class called ‘tourists’.  “...and then you could open a second and then a third until all the towns in the county had a ‘Feathers’. Martin said he would discuss it with the landlord’s wife who was the real brains of the outfit, but on some other occasion.

In the lowering splendour of the gothic dining room they were joined by Myles, Martin’s secretary and, beneath the gloom, the candlelight reflected theatrically off silver, china and crystal as well as off the stiff white fronts of the boys’ evening clothes as they were served by Chilvers and the two footmen.  Nevertheless it was a jolly meal and was followed by billiards— which Dwight won— and by bridge which came out pretty even.

“I want to see something of bohemian life in Europe, Martin,” said Bunny, as he dealt the cards.  “I know all about how folks live at home and it seems so stultifying; there must be more out there where the water is not safe to drink.”

“Well, we have our friend, Archie, who is a genuine artist and he is certainly eccentric if not actually bohemian.  He lives in a studio in Chelsea and has very interesting parties.  Certainly some of his friends are bohemians, but you would only be served very good champagne, I’m afraid, and so the dangers are of a different order.”

“We’ll see him when we go up to London and you’re sure to meet writers and painters who are very up-to-date, not to say distinctly odd,” added Stephen.

“Yes, I hope it’s not too quiet down here,” said Martin.

“Oh not at all,” said Dwight.  “I’m having dinner in a castle with a real live aristocrat and sleeping in a bed that Charles I used before they cut his head off.”

“I think it was Charles II who slept here and the scandal of that visit was that he insisted that his mistress, Moll Davis, must be invited too and that lady had such a fine coach and such expensive jewellery that she flaunted to all and sundry, that my ancestor wrote she was ‘the most impertinent slut in the land’ and that it was an ‘infinite shame’ that she should have been invited at all.

“Well you have some fine cuff links, Mala,” said Stephen, “and your Rolls Royce is a very fine coach indeed.”

“Are you saying I’m the most impertinent slut in the land, Derby?”

“Oh no, Mala.  I’ve heard that there is one up in the South Riding of Yorkshire that could knock you into a cocked hat, but…”

“Do you see what I have to put up with, Bunny and Dwight?” declared Martin, looking at them in exasperation.  “In the days of Sir Ayland Poole I could have had his balls removed with hot pincers for such impertinence as easily as calling Chilvers for the coffee.  In fact I might have to devise something similar myself tonight.”

Bunny and Dwight were turning from Martin to Stephen with bewildered looks.

“It was a joke!” chorused Stephen and Martin in unison, putting their visitors out of their misery. 

***** 

“I think we will have to make it absolutely clear when we are teasing each other, Derby, and wave a flag or something when we’re being whimsical or poor Bunny and Dwight will be tied up in knots.”  Martin was saying this from underneath Stephen who was naked and on all fours on their bed.  Martin had been interested in torturing Stephen’s big balls which swung low under the influence of gravity, but unlike Sir Ayland, he did not have the convenience of pincers and a blacksmith’s forge, and so was happily making do with his tongue and lips, taking one, then the other of the village stud’s testicles into his mouth and occasionally pulling on the scrotum with his hands. “Your balls need a lot of attention, Derbs; it might take me some time to do them justice.”

“That’s what I said to Prince George.”

“What?” asked Martin.

“When he came to my room I made him get down and work on my balls before we did anything else.  He is actually someone who likes being ordered around— which is inconvenient if you’re a prince— but he loves it.  I’m sure Mrs Allen does the same to him; he’s really very young.”

Martin was intrigued. “What else did you do?”

“Well, I shouldn’t kiss and tell, but I made him work on just my balls for ever such a long time— using just his tongue and then his hands.  I don’t like having dry balls and it’s such a waste when someone is keen on them.  I then had him lie down while I squatted on his face; I tried not to think he was the King’s son.  He kept his tongue protruded while I slowly passed back and forth— it was heaven.

“I love it when I do that to you too, Derby.”

“But you take the initiative; he likes me to force him.”

“I let him touch himself while he did that and then I had him spit on my cock and suck me- although I was very hard already.  He nearly choked himself.”  Martin could imagine.  “I told him it would hurt, but he insisted that I stick it in.  He didn’t want me to use the Spong’s, but of course I did and so you can imagine the rest.  I made him clean me up afterwards, which he did obediently and I even used his own pyjamas to wipe up where he had spilt all over himself.  It was fun, but it could get tiresome if the other person was forever the ‘slave’ don’t you think?”

Martin didn’t ever think he’d ever be tired of being Stephen’s slave but was in fact enjoying being Sir Ayland Poole at the moment.  “Derbs, where’s your strap.  I want you to put it on.”

“Oh I had to give it to the Prince, although it was far too loose on him.  Sorry.  We’d better buy a new one in London because I feel like wearing it too.”

Martin was now on his back under Stephen and chewing on his long, brown foreskin while Stephen had taken Martin’s cock into his mouth.  To continue talking they each had to remove the other’s member from their lips.

“Derby,” said Martin, “let’s go and get Dwight and Bunny.  If they want to see something bohemian, surely an English lord with the village stud, his lover, would be a good start.  And Derby, I wouldn’t mind a bit if you ordered me to do all sorts of things that strike your fancy, but we mustn’t confuse our visitors too much just the same.

Martin put on a dressing gown and Stephen pulled on the lemon silk pyjama bottoms.  These sat so low on his hips that his neatly trimmed pubic bush in the shape of a heart was visible above the waist and the base of his cock was hardly concealed at all.  Where Martin had so lavishly tongued him, there was a large damp patch on the silk.  Martin felt proud.

They knocked at Bunny’s door.  There was already lamplight coming from underneath when they opened it.  Dwight was there too.  They were both sitting up reading and Dwight’s book looked to be of a medical nature.

“We thought you might like to come across to our room,” said Martin.  Stephen stood behind him with his arms wrapped around his chest and his arching cock placed in the folds of the dressing gown about where Martin’s buttocks would be.  He wobbled a little from side to side.  “It can get rather lonely in this house and Stephen is very good at thinking of things to do.”  At this point Stephen reached around Martin and pulled his dressing gown aside like a pair of stage curtains and Martin’s half-erect cock was displayed to the visitors.  Stephen made a playful loop of the dressing gown cord and wrapped it around Martin’s cock and balls. Dwight and Bunny just stared at them.  “I mean we had some fun together in Chicago, didn’t we?  And we don’t regard it as wrong if we’re both there, but you might think differently.”

“As you know,” began Dwight, “we are faithful to each other as that is the foundation stone of our union and what happened in 1917 was a long time ago.  We think of ourselves as a married couple now and we try to live decently, even though the world might think otherwise.”

“Aw don’t be such a stuffed shirt, Rip.  We could play around a bit and if we are truly strong for each other, it shouldn’t make any difference at all,” said Bunny.  “You liked it once.” This was true Dwight had to admit to himself, as he conjured up images of their romp in the Blackstone Hotel.  It was a wonder that the police were not called.

Martin and Stephen swapped places and Martin now stood behind Stephen with his dressing gown open and his cock pressed into Stephen’s buttocks.  Stephen was practically at ‘full mast’ and his cock tented its silken confines obscenely.  Martin ran his hands over Stephen’s naked torso, showing him off enticingly to the visitors.  Stephen turned himself in the direction of Dwight like a weather vane.

Dwight shrugged and had resented Bunny’s suggestion that he was too prim.  He licked his lips at the sight before him. “Sure Bun. I’d like some fun.”

They got out of bed and Stephen wasted no time in removing their pyjamas which he threw with contempt across the room and he made them traverse the corridor, naked and on their tiptoes, as naked men are want to walk. 

There was quite a bit of kissing, Martin beginning at Stephen’s lips and then moving down to kiss the soft patch of raven hair in the centre of his chest.  Martin then turned and kissed Dwight’s ear then neck while Stephen softly kissed Bunny on the lips.  Dwight, and Bunny to some extent, were hesitant but became more enthusiastic when they got to run their hands over Martin and Stephen.  Stephen loved Bunny’s big shoulders and moved behind him to plant kisses along their whole width while Martin was already on his knees at Dwight’s cock.  He had ceased to object.

Stephen’s pyjama bottoms were removed and all three fell to worshipping him.  “Bend over, Derbs,” said Martin.  Stephen touched his toes.  Martin parted the village studs muscular cheeks with their dusting of jet-black hair at the margins. “Isn’t this just beautiful?” said Martin to Bunny.  Martin buried his face in the cleavage for a moment and then offered it to Bunny. “Bun,” he said, “Stephen would love to feel your cock in there.  Wouldn’t you Derbs?” A groan signified the affirmative.  Bunny, with eyes shining in the lamplight, began to work his own cock and Martin handed him a tube of Spong’s Soothing Salve.

At the other end, Dwight was mesmerised by Stephen’s rigid, dripping cock.  “Dwight,” said Martin quietly, “It feels wonderful when he’s deep inside you—even though it hurts a little at first.  Stephen would love to put it in and I’d love to watch.  I promise you’ll never forget it if you let him do it.”

“Do it Dwight!” called Bunny, “And I will do it to him at the same time.”

“And you can swap afterwards,” said Stephen who thought he had better say something seeing as how everything was being organized around him.  “And if you give me a little rest I can fuck you too, Mala, if you’d like — sorry about the ‘cussing’.”

“When have I ever said I wouldn’t like?” replied Martin with a laugh and indeed Stephen searched his mind and could find no instance; Martin was a more than willing partner.

So they made themselves comfortable with pillows and blankets, now unconcerned at their nakedness.  Martin and Stephen began dutifully on their knees, using their mouths to get Dwight and Bunny hard and excited.  Stephen then spread himself with his hands and Bunny entered him, pushing in hard to counter Stephen’s strong muscles.  With a shove he was practically all the way in and Stephen grunted and his eyes watered.  Stephen reached behind and seized Bunny’s arms and clasped them around his torso to ensure Bunny would stay inside him.  Bunny thrust and Stephen, lost in pleasure, steadied himself on the bedpost and pressed back.

Presently Dwight presented his buttocks to a panting Stephen and Martin assisted by repeatedly dragging Stephen’s long cock the length of Dwight’s slicked cleavage.  Martin had loosened him up with his fingers, but Stephen wanted to insert his own fingers, which he did rather roughly as he was so excited.  Bunny slowed to a halt so that this might take place but Stephen urged him to keep him filled up.  With Martin’s assistance Dwight was finally penetrated.  He winced and Stephen went slowly, concentrating on what he was doing without the distraction of being violated by Bunny.  All of a sudden Dwight gave an electric jolt and his own flaccid cock jumped.  Stephen had touched him somewhere deep inside and Dwight informatively named the exact spot in Latin.  Stephen did it again and again and there was a similar response each time as Dwight came to enjoy it.  Bunny then went back to work and presently it was an over-stimulated Stephen who was pushing backwards onto Bunny and then thrusting forward into Dwight who now held onto the bedpost as Stephen grasped his hair for leverage.

Bunny felt he was too close so he pulled out and Stephen turned round in dismay at the sudden void he felt.  Martin took his place for a few minutes until Bunny felt able to resume his labours.  Stephen, however never let up on Dwight and was in so deep and touching the aforementioned spot so effectively that the ragged Dwight’s cock was hard and dripping and any discomfort was now quite forgotten in the heat of passion.

Meanwhile Martin went from one to the other, assisting with the salve and offering encouragement as he enjoyed the triple sight.  A sign from Bunny drew Martin to work on his nipples and then a look of concentration told him that Bunny had spilt inside Stephen.  Stephen sensed this and emphatically and repeatedly backed into him, tightening his muscles to milk the American dry.  Eventually Bunny pulled out and Martin was down on his knees in a trice to sample his seed mixed with Stephen’s juices.

Stephen then managed to pick up Dwight and throw him on the bed on his back and re-entered him with renewed vigour.  Dwight spilled helplessly onto his stomach and chest while Stephen was now a veritable tornado.  Suddenly he pulled out and using his own hand to administer a couple of strokes, hosed his seed all over Dwight’s face.

Stephen was breathless and rested on his hands placed either side of Dwight, panting.

“That was mighty fine!” said Dwight at last, the first to speak an intelligible word in half an hour.

“Thanks,” replied Stephen modestly. “And thanks to you Bunny; I always produce a big load when I’m being well fucked.

“I’m next, Derby!” said Martin, excited.

“Hold on, Mala, give me a rest first.  Clean up Dwight if you can’t wait for your own.”

And so he did and they found that in Martin’s big bed there was plenty of room for all of them.  It wasn’t long afterwards, after much remorseless stimulation by the impatient Martin, aided by Dwight and Bunny who had worked out how to get Stephen aroused (which wasn’t particularly difficult), that Stephen entered Martin’s choice buttocks and soon, with the bed a sweaty mess, had deposited his seed inside him.  Bunny, however, had fallen asleep and so he was left until the early morning when he too was rewarded with several cocks. 

***** 

At half past seven Carlo entered with a tray of coffee, having found Bunny’s and Dwight’s rooms empty.  Bunny looked a little sheepish as he lay in the midst of tangled bedding and three other bodies.  Carlo said nothing and returned with the tea tray for Martin and Stephen that Chilvers would normally have brought.

“Thank you, Carlo” said Martin.  “Leave them on the table.  We’ll let Mr Stephen snore on; he’s had a tiring night.” Carlo left with a grin, wishing he had been at the keyhole.

Dwight stirred and opened his eyes, just as Carlo departed.  He kissed Bunny and looked over at the coffee. “That was some night.  Thanks, Martin,” he said.

“Yeah, that was sure swell,” said Bunny.  You sore, Rip?” Dwight confessed that he was.

“So you don’t want to do it again?” asked Martin mischievously.

“Oh no, siree, don’t get me wrong,” said Dwight in a panic, not realising he was being teased.  “Let the big fellow sleep and regain his energy.”

“He felt good didn’t he?  He puts his whole heart and soul into it,” observed Martin.

“And not just those,” said Dwight, making a joke.

Martin pulled back the sheet to expose Stephen’s half-hard cock that lay across his hipbone. Dwight, who was on the nearside, leaned down and planted a soft kiss of gratitude on the blunt end where the long, brown foreskin completely covered the plum-coloured head, save for just the tip.  He would have liked to have done more, but Stephen deserved his sleep.

Bunny had brought Dwight a cup of coffee from the table and Dwight took a sip, finding it difficult to get his lips on the rim.  “I think you will need to wash your face, Rip,” said Bunny and Dwight put his hand to his cheek.  Stephen’s seed had dried there, puckering the skin. He realised with burning shame that Carlo must have seen him like this and Martin and Bunny giggled.  The noise made Stephen roll over on his stomach and an outstretched arm with foetid black armpit, pinned Dwight to the bed, but, at the same time, revealing his classically-sculpted, masculine buttocks to Martin and Bunny who then set about taking advantage of the opportunity thus presented.

From that day onwards Bunny and Dwight were more at ease as they played tennis went for walks and used the village gymnasium—which they thought was ‘cute’.  On one rare fine day they decided to go swimming.  It had been ever so long since Martin had been to the sacred pool in the wood, although Stephen liked to swim even when it was cold.  The spot was largely unchanged, with its arching ceiling and soft carpet formed by the grove of copper beeches.  The water was very cold and only Stephen really enjoyed splashing about.  It took a great deal of persuasion just to get Bunny and Dwight to remove their clothes and they were terrified of being seen.  However, at last they did strip naked but could be persuaded to go no further, despite Martin making playful grabs at their privates.  On other occasions, however, Martin noticed that they were more inclined to be physical with each other, touching hands and patting bottoms when no one was about and they would now also kiss in front of Martin and Stephen, which Martin thought was very sweet.

He and Stephen were much more daring, by comparison, Martin realised, and frequently shocked the visitors, by their sudden passions which had to be instantly consummated; Stephen suddenly saying that he simply must bite Martin’s buttock cheeks when they were in a deep sand trap at the golf links; Martin having to urgently feel Stephen’s recumbent manhood during Mr Destrombe’s sermon under the cover of an open hymnal.  Bunny was quite shocked at this particularly sly act of blasphemy and found he had to make a noise with the poker in the grate to cover his confusion.  Mr Destrombe merely paused and looked over the top of his glasses at him and then returned to James Fordyce’s Sermon to Young Women On Being Pleasing to Men.

However in their beds, especially after some good dinners at which the wine flowed liberally, the Americans were now enthusiastic participants and enjoyed swapping partners and watching the other being pleasured.  Though, they were still a little awkward in front of the servants, even Carlo, and made sure they were found in their own separate beds in the morning.

“Do you think they’re ready for London, Mala?” asked Stephen as he lay in bed with his arm around his lover.

“They were a bit provincial at first but I think we must be a particularly depraved pair.  I’m quite sure we would not pass that test they keep talking about for membership of the Rotary Club.”

“We’re not so depraved; we just don’t go in for humbug, that’s all, Mala.  I think most people are like us underneath, except they cover it up—‘repress it’ as they say now and it is probably unhealthy.”

“So, if I say that I want to suck your cock right now while I insert the black dildo in your bottom, that is not depraved?”

“Certainly not, Mala—as long as you use the Spong’s first and don’t put ice in your whisky and call a dinner jacket a tuxedo.”

“Derby, please don’t become too sophisticated; it would spoil you.  I like you as you are at our swimming place— a bit wild, like Tarzan of the Apes.”

Stephen digested this for a moment and decided that it was a compliment.  He climbed from beneath the blankets and swung by one hand from the tester over the old bed and beat his bare chest with the other and made a bellowing noise that brought Carlo from his room.  The servant opened the door and was wide-eyed to find Stephen still hanging there above the bed and being silly as Martin grabbed at his cock.  “Don’t worry, Carlo,” he said.  “Mr Stephen simply saw a mouse and was frightened.”

Shortly afterwards they found themselves on the train to London.  They were in a first-class compartment with Carlo and Myles and they glared so ferociously at potential interlopers in the corridor that they remained free from the intrusion of strangers.  Martin chatted on to Myles about appointments he must attend to in London, going over the leather-bound diary, which was now essential for the organisation of his life, and then to Stephen about The Plunger whom they hadn’t seen for several weeks.

“You’ll like him, Bun.  He’s our dearest friend and we love him very much.  He’s terribly rich but lives the bohemian life of an artist,” said Martin and unconsciously rested his hand on Stephen’s thigh as he spoke.  Dwight wanted to hold Bunny’s hand at that moment—perhaps it was Martin’s remark about love—but he hesitated; here he was in public in a British railroad compartment with other people and complete strangers who passed up and down the corridor.  He kept staring at Martin’s hand as the conversation went on about him.  At one point Stephen spread his legs imperceptibly so that Martin could slide his hand a little lower and cup his balls with just the tips of his fingers.  Dwight was mesmerised.  He suddenly looked up and Myles caught his eye; he had been watching him.

“The Captain— as he was then— and I were trapped for two days in the cellar of a shelled farmhouse in France,” he said quietly, “I was a wreck but he got me through.  I’ve been a little in love with him ever since—in love with them both really.”

This confession strangely filled Dwight’s heart and he boldly clasped Bunny’s hand under the cover of the light overcoat that was across his knees.  He chanced a glance at Myles who smiled back at him.  He was someone who understood about love.

Attention was soon directed out of the window as the countryside gave way to the outlying fringes of London.  It was hard to make comparisons to their native Chicago, thought Bunny and Dwight, who compared impressions, as it was not so overtly industrial, although they passed plenty of factories.  There were no wooden houses and, of course, everything seemed older.  The landscape was not flat and the railways, like the roads, were not drawn with a ruler.  Here the lines were often in cuttings whereas in Chicago they were more often on great embankments offering a grey and smoky panorama broken here and there by bright green patches where trees had been planted; London seemed to have fewer trees when the endless rows of suburban houses with narrow back gardens were at last left behind.

Finally they were at Waterloo.  Carlo and Stephen organised their luggage while Myles found two taxis.  The rain eased and there were the initial impressions of the great capital. Martin was pleased when they both said they would like to see the sights, as the leaden uninterested visitor was a far greater burden than the enthusiastic tourist and Martin was proud of London, even if it were not his home in the same way that Croome was.

Glass opened the door and the upper servants were lined up in the traditional manner.  There were now two young footmen at Branksome House and their great prize, M Lefaux the chef, stood next to Mrs Smith the housekeeper and Martin introduced les Américains to him with the most flattering of comments.

Bunny and Dwight were shown to the first floor where their bedrooms adjoined a bathroom in the American manner.  The old house was also very warm.  Bunny thought only an elevator was required to bring it up to American standards of comfort.  The visitors were taken down the carpeted corridor and shown Martin and Stephen’s room with its two doors for privacy and the speaking tube with its silver whistle used to summon Carlo.  “At home we have house telephones for that,” observed Dwight.

Tea was taken in Martin’s mother’s pink drawing room— the ‘double cube’ room that stretched from Piccadilly to the rear garden, which was not much more than a large plane tree in a square of indifferent lawn hemmed in by brick walls.  The visitors were still not quite used to the ceremonial and time-wasting tradition of afternoon tea.  It should at least have been an opportunity for men to discuss business, but these Britishers did nothing of the sort and hypocritically frowned (as Bunny knew) at the mere mention of money.  Aunt Maude came with her daughter-in-law who, it was explained, was their friend The Plunger’s sister. She was only about six weeks from having her baby, but did not mind coming out to Branksome House.  With her was Brian Chetwold the fiancé of Sophia Vane-Gillingham who was expected to be also joining them.  How did someone like Chetwold get time of from his bank downtown to drink cups of tea in a fancy parlour?

Bunny watched all with great interest.  The ladies did not remove their hats but did tug off their gloves.  They sat quite upright, but not stiffly.  Chetwold left his derby—or bowler hat as they called them over here—and his furled umbrella with Glass and sat with legs in their striped trousers uncrossed and his knees not quite touching as he balanced a saucer in his left hand and lifted the teacup with his right.  Drinking tea with ladies was not considered effeminate over here.

Glass and a footman had carried in the trays a few minutes previously and set them down on a table in front of Lady Vane-Gillingham.  There was a silver urn with a blue spirit flame underneath to keep the water boiling.  There were two silver teapots containing respectively China and Indian tea.  Other silver bowls were for emptying out the slops in as elegant a way as possible.  There was a silver jug for milk, which Bunny would have termed ‘cream’ at home and another with cubes of sugar and a set of ‘nips’ or tongs for their transportation. Aunt Maude enquired of everyone how they desired their tea—the Indian was not selected so Bunny thought it best not to break suit.  The teapot was lifted and the tea poured through a silver strainer, which reposed in its own silver dish.  Hot water was added for those who desired it ‘black’ and for those who didn’t, a splash of milk was added and then a cube of sugar was dropped in without sound for such addicts.  There was a certain way of stirring too that Bunny could not quite make out, save to say that it was noiseless and no vortex was created. Sophia asked for lemon and Bunny saw there was a small dish and tongs for this predilection.  Aunt Maude herself passed the cups to those seated nearby.  All this was done with little interruption to the flow of conversation—every Britisher, it seemed to Bunny, knew what to do and how to behave and the tea was taken without any apparent regard to thirst or display of relish— it was simply something they did every day.

Glass and the footman then passed around small plates and napkins.  The napkins were draped over the right knee-—not particularly usefully— and tiny tasteless sandwiches or thin slices of cake were dispensed.  It was all rather bloodless, thought Bunny, and the paramount consideration seemed to be to exhibit no expression whatsoever about the food or the beverage.  It was expected to be good, of course, but enthusiasm was considered vulgar.

While the others could eat and sip without even casting their eyes down, Bunny found he could not and a sideways glance showed that Dwight was having difficulties and had already dropped his napkin.  Naturally the visitors fielded many questions about life in America, which had something of the air of anthropological curiosity.  When Bunny found himself giving a rather long account of Mr Henry Ford, he found that he had let his cup tilt and now the saucer was awash.  Deftly the footman took it way and it was replaced with another.  Nevertheless Bunny burned as he knew the tea ordeal was some kind of British test.

Dwight had just launched dangerously into a rather overly detailed dissertation on diseases of the skin (his speciality) and Bunny had understood that the enquiry from Lady Vane-Gillingham had been merely a rhetorical one which Dwight had taken literally, when the arrival of Sophia in the drawing room caused a welcome interruption.  All the gentlemen rose, placing their cups and balanced plates and napkins on any available flat surface while greetings were exchanged.  Sophia kissed her mother and her fiancé.

The conversation resumed pleasantly, with Dwight’s topic left to lapse.  Bunny began to realise there was another side to the frosty Britishers for Dwight and Bunny were automatically included in it without the need for fulsome introductions and hard-sell testimonials that would have been used in his own country—And please make the acquaintance of Mr Jack R. Wilbur the Third who is a swell guy and knows all the dope on property prices on North Michigan… These people had nothing to sell and they simply assumed that you were one of their own if you were drinking tea in Lord Branksome’s drawing room; they wouldn’t dream of embarrassing one by explaining what Wimbledon was or who Biffo was (presumably a friend rather than a pet) — they just assumed you were like them and the human condition (at least among the upper classes) was universal.  It was a nice feeling, decided Bunny.

“I do hope you will both dine at Lowndes Square on Thursday,” said Aunt Maude to Bunny and Dwight pulling on her gloves and standing.  The gentlemen stood too.  “We are going to the theatre afterwards to see ‘Outward Bound’ which has been a great success.  A quick exchange of looks with Martin told the visitors that this was possible and Bunny replied, “That would be delightful, Lady Vane-Gillingham,” in his best English manner, rather than the more enthusiastic That would sure be swell he might have been tempted to employ at home.

In a few minutes the room was empty and Bunny realised that ‘tea’ had taken less than fifty minutes and that he had negotiated it successfully.

That evening they were to go to The Plunger’s studio in Cheyne Walk where he had organised a party particularly for Bunny and Dwight and Martin was sure that he would have gone to a great deal of trouble.  It was decided not to dress in evening clothes and already Bunny was sensing the bohemianism he so craved.

The first surprise as they climbed the stairs was the music (if it could be called such).  This consisted of various wails and sirens and toots and was terribly discordant and seemed to follow no pattern.  If this was going to be kept up all night it was going to be very hard to bear. 

Gertie answered the door and was dressed as befitted a gentleman’s gentleman except for a quantity of make-up.  Dwight was a little taken aback and was reluctant to hand over his hat and coat to this painted houri.  The Plunger rushed up and Martin and Stephen were taken aback for The Plunger now sported a red moustache and pointed Van Dyke beard.

“Why Plunger, you look simply marvellous.  I love it!” cried Martin.  He went to pull it and Archie knocked his hand away.

“Steady on Poole.  It’s bad enough that children in the street call out ‘beaver’ without having my friends trying to pull it off.”

Martin recovered himself and apologised and then introduced Bunny and Dwight to their Svengali-like friend. “I say Archie, what is that frightful din.”

“It is a bit challenging,” said The Plunger, “but I expect him to be finished in the next half an hour.”  He led them through the crowd of people to the source of the music, which proved to emanate from a group of machines in a corner under the control of a young man who leapt from one to the other under the direction of the composer who was conducting furiously with a baton.

“They’re factory sirens,” said Archie informatively in a raised voice.  “He is a Bolshevik and he is very concerned to create authentic revolutionary proletarian art untainted by bourgeois traditions.”

“Why is he playing here?” asked Stephen.

“Why, I wanted to give him a chance, of course, and I thought Mr Hoyt and Mr Wilbur might be interested in something so unorthodox.  Besides, apart from playing at Lady Londonderry’s last week, he hasn’t been able to gain an audience.  His performance at Tate & Lyle’s factory in Silverton was not a success—see the bandage on the side of his head.  That was caused by a spanner being thrown.”

The performance abruptly came to a halt—the labours for the day apparently being at an end—and the composer bowed to the room where The Plunger glared about fiercely until everyone put their hands together.  Someone else wound the gramophone while the factory hooters were being placed in a suitcase.

Many of the guests had brought their paintings with them and these were set up about the studio where small knots of people bent in earnest discussion.  Bunny ad Dwight went about the room too, armed with glasses of champagne, and gave their opinions and talked with the artists.  Bunny felt he was at last touching Bohemia, especially when one artist explained that his odd composition in a trapezoidal frame and consisting of colourful overlapping squares and triangles, was actually a portrait of his mistress holding their illegitimate child.

Then there were the literary types.  One author turned out, on closer inspection, to be an authoress who had just written a book on her previous life as a horse, which, apparently, was in the time of the Amazons.  Another was an intense poet of the ‘Imagist’ school.  He declaimed:

My boots are useless now
Their soles let in the water
Once I had a man mend them
He used leather and small tacks
These he drove with a small hammer
On a last in his shop.

Dwight eagerly reported back to Bunny that one guy he’d been talking to lived in a windmill in Essex while Bunny confessed he had learnt that a painter— presently filling his pockets with sandwiches on the other side of the studio—lived in two rented rooms in a place called Camden Town with his mistress and four children.  It was all terribly exotic.

Along towards 2:00 The Plunger, aided by Gertie, began to throw the guests out.  The Plunger himself paid for taxis to take the more hard-up ones to their abodes, especially if they had to also carry their works of art home again.

Now only Martin and Stephen and the two Americans remained in the empty studio. Gertie appeared with his hair in curlers but carrying a very welcome tray of bitter black coffee in tiny glass cups. “Why thank you, Gertie,” said his master with genuine feeling.  Gertie just sniffed but gave an adoring look to Stephen.

They climbed the ladder to The Plunger’s leather mattress and sipped their coffee in recumbent postures. “Are you coming with us to Antibes, Archie?” asked Stephen.

“Of course.  It’s next week?  I’m looking forward to it.”

“We’ve never been to France,” confessed Bunny.

“You’ll love it,” said The Plunger with enthusiasm. “The light in the south is superb for painting.  Antibes is quaint and the peasants are au naturel.”

“The sailors are pretty natural too,” said Martin recalling pleasant times.

“Do you think you’d like to have fun with some matelots, Bunny?”

He wasn’t sure but felt he’d like to look at them, just the same.  “What about it, Rip?”

“I don’t know, Bun.  I’m new to all this and I don’t think I’m ready for rough strangers. They might be diseased.”

“Tell them about our time with the guardsmen right here in town, Derbs.  We were still at school then,” said Martin.

Stephen put his coffee aside and lay back on a satin pillow shaped like a zeppelin.  “Well, we disguised ourselves and rented this terrible room above an empty shop near the barracks.  It was easy to pick up three fit recruits at the pub near the barracks.  They might all be dead now,” he reflected solemnly.  “They really worked us over, didn’t they, Archie?  Except for yours Mala.”

“Yes, it was his first time and he had a fiancée who was having a baby.  He didn’t want to do anything.”

Stephen went on to describe the rough encounter and The Plunger filled in some colour. 

Stephen then talked about the two Norwegian sailors at the Mission to Seamen.  The talk was getting them all hard in their trousers and they were quite openly rubbing themselves.

“I’m not going to make it home,” confessed Stephen and brazenly unbuckled and slipped his trousers off.  He spread his legs luxuriantly on the cool leather squab and sighed.

“May I, Martin?” asked The Plunger.

“When have you ever needed to ask, Plunger?  Just so long as you leave some for us, isn’t that right Bunny?”  Bunny and Dwight nodded and began to remove their own trousers.  Presently Stephen had four mouths and eight hands on him.

“I want to watch,” cried Stephen and sat up, freeing himself from the overwhelming attention.  “Archie, you with Martin and Bunny, you with Dwight!”

There was not much the Americans could teach the Englishmen (if The Plunger could be so loosely described) and vice-versa and soon they had all spilled while Stephen knelt and stroked his own cock while he watched them writhing on the mattress.  When the four had finished they lined up eagerly and Stephen spilt generously but haltingly by manipulating the tip of his penis with his fingers to make sure the productive fluid was spread equally to the upturned faces and eager mouths.  Bunny, boldly and perhaps in the free an easy spirit of bohemia, dived on Stephen’s member to make sure he was properly drained while clasping his balls as he had seen Martin do.

There was no tedious analysis, instead they simply dressed and climbed down the ladder and crossed the studio where The Plunger bade them good night.  On the stairs the artist who had stolen the sandwiches earlier was fast asleep, not having made it back to the bosom of his family in Camden Town and Dwight’s sharp eyes made out the distinctive broad brimmed hat of Hibbertson the sculptor and the peacock feathers of the poetess who wrote only in capital letters, recumbent under the cedar trees in the Apothecary Garden where they were practicing an Art of a different kind—despite the damp lawn.  Yes, this was certainly not Wilmette, Illinois.

To be continued…