The Petticoat Men Read Free Page A

not misunderstand! It is disgusting! I want to go home!’ The voice rose to a crescendo.
    Another voice interrupted: a man? a woman? it was not clear.
    ‘Well, dear, frankly I think you should go home to the nasty little abode from whence you emerged! It was me he beckoned to follow him into this private boudoir, not you, you cheap and ignorant little St John’s Wood trollop!’ and there was then further violent verbal altercation, screeches, further slapping, and the sound of sobbing: all these sounds emerged from one of the discreet side rooms very indiscreetly; whether it was male or female sobbing was difficult, at this juncture in the evening, to judge.
    Stella, Star of the Strand, descended from the platform.
    The orchestra tried to play on valiantly.
    Several couples stepped on to the dance floor rather hesitantly.
    But more or less, with champagne and eggshells everywhere, and the torn wallpaper, and rather shocked enquiries from below – and the realisation that it was almost four in the morning – the ball, at this point, disintegrated.

    Because of subsequent events, this ball at Mr Porterbury’s Hotel, and several others like it, became somewhat notorious. They were gossiped about in gentlemen’s clubs and particular backstreet venues and certain private publications in what can only be described as a pornographic manner – with much mention of stiff pulsating members and open orifices spied in the side rooms off the ballroom. Nevertheless it is indisputable that those who had actually been present at this most amusing evening, those who had had the pleasure of hearing the dulcet tones and ladylike presentations of Stella, Star of the Strand, would of course have reacted with complete outrage – in a witness box in a court case, say – to such perniciouslies.

3

    ‘Give me champagne, Susan!’ cried the Prince of Wales, and he actually threw his hat across the drawing room of the house in Chapel-street of his most intimate and long-standing mistress. ‘You and I have fifty minutes before I must dine with the Prime Minister and I, my dear, require much champagne and ministration from you!’
    The Prince of Wales was extremely relieved.
    It was perfectly well known (but of course never publicly mentioned), by the aforementioned mistress, and by the upper echelons of society, and by servants in fine and not so fine houses – and by hansom-cab drivers – that the Prince of Wales seemed to be able to manage several liaisons at any one time in little pre-arranged afternoon visits all over London.
    However, today the Prince had finally emerged – only just untainted – from the scandalous Mordaunt divorce case in which His Royal Highness, among others, had been named by Sir Charles Mordaunt, the wronged husband. This accusation, which nothing could induce Sir Charles Mordaunt to withdraw, had been mentioned at some length in the newspapers.
    The Prince – and his long-suffering but loyal and loving Danish wife, the Princess Alexandra – had been outraged that his unfortunate public naming (out of spite, obviously) had resulted in newspaper coverage that was less than supportive. Eventually the Prince had been forced to stand – oh, unheard-of impertinence! – in the witness box during the case. It had taken much political and judicial behind-the-scenes manoeuvring to prevent His Royal Highness facing any sort of cross-examination; it was inconceivable that the dignity of the heir to the Royal Throne of England should be besmirched in such a manner. Instead the Prince was questioned politely (the word ‘deferentially’ is a word that might perhaps be used) by lawyers for the defence.
    ‘I would like to ask Your Royal Highness if you are socially acquainted with Lady Harriet Mordaunt?’
    ‘I am.’
    ‘I wonder if I might ask if it is true that on some afternoons Your Royal Highness paid visits to Lady Harriet Mordaunt when her husband was not present?’
    ‘Very occasionally; only if I happened