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Updated: June 1, 2025
Maria Lady Rowndell insists on giving me a hundred a year to pay for it. It is her own beautiful way of helping the good cause. Ice, please, waiter. I've just been seeing her to-night. She's staying here for the season. Saves her a lot of trouble. She's very much cut up about the death of Priam Farll, poor thing! So artistic, you know!
Considering that he wasn't even an R.A., I don't think that it was quite nice of him. However, Maria Lady Rowndell insists that he must be buried in Westminster Abbey. She asked me what I could do. Woman: Buried in Westminster Abbey! I'd no idea he was so big as all that! Gracious! Priest: I have the greatest confidence in Maria Lady Rowndell's taste, and certainly I bear no grudge.
Waiter: Please, gentlemen! Man: So good of you. As regards the burial in Westminster Abbey, I think that the Record will support the project. I say I think. Priest: Maria Lady Rowndell will be grateful. Five-sixths of the remaining lights went out, and the entire company followed them. In the foyer there was a prodigious crush of opera cloaks, silk hats, and cigars, all jostling together.
The late Lord Rowndell had what is supposed to be the finest lot of Farlls in England. Man: Did you ever meet Priam Farll, Father Luke? Priest: Never. I understand he was most eccentric. I hate eccentricity. I once wrote to him to ask him if he would paint a Holy Family for St. Bede's. Man: And what did he reply? Priest: He didn't reply.
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