"Who is that rough-looking but handsome gentleman?" whispered Miss Charlotte Stevens to her dear sister Cassandra as they stood near the punch bowl. She gestured to a rough-looking but handsome gentleman standing near the entry to the ballroom of Puddleton Abbey, the handsome Georgian house in Yorkshire where the Stevens sisters dwelt with their distinguished but impoverished parents, and which they soon must sell unless the daughters could secure an income through astute marriage.
"Oh!" exclaimed Cassandra, her partially exposed breasts quivering beneath the formal gown that partially exposed her ample bosom. "Why that is Mr. Basingstoke, heir to a great fortune and the object of great desire among the young ladies because he is rough-looking and handsome, but mostly because he is heir to a great fortune. Miss Biddle says he is hung like an Arabian stallion."
"Does she now? And how ever would Miss Biddle know?"
"She has her sources. Miss Biddle also says he has an eye for you."
"An eye for me? What ever do you mean?"
Cassandra leaned over and whispered: "It means he wants to rip off your bodice, bend you over a chair and ravish you with his stallionesque manhood."
Charlotte blushed. "Shhh. He's coming this way." She fanned herself rapidly as Basingtoke made his way through the crowd, stood before them and bowed respectfully.
"The Misses Stevens, I believe? Miss Biddle said I should introduce myself. I am Basil Basingstoke."
Charlotte feigned disinterest. "We know of no Basingstokes among the better families."
"It's true," Basil said wryly. "My family is of no great distinction. But I am rich nevertheless, which makes me a suitable marriage candidate in Georgian England, especially for young ladies who lack an income of their own."
The orchestra began playing a minuet. Mr. Basingstoke extended his hand to Charlotte. "May I have the honor of this minuet?"
Charlotte nodded; they glided to the dance floor and joined the minuet. As they danced together, Charlotte inquired: "Is it true what they say, Mr. Basingstoke, that you are hung like an Arabian stallion?"
"Why yes, Miss Charlotte, I believe it is."
"And is it also true that you wish to tear off my bodice, bend me over a chair and ravish me with your stallionesque manhood?"
"Yes, indeed. And first I wish to spank your large pale bottom."
Charlotte stopped dancing. "Sir, you are not a gentleman, and you shall never touch my large pale bottom." And with that, Charlotte flounced out of the ballroom and up the grand staircase to her bedroom.
Megan pauses and smiles. "Methinks Charlotte has not seen the last of Mr. Basingstoke," she says to herself. She continues to write.
Charlotte sprawled on her bed in her evening gown for some time. Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. She ran to the door and opened it, expecting to see Cassandra. It was Rex, the Stevens' rough-looking but handsome groom. He pushed his way into the room.
"Good evening Miss Charlotte."
"G-g-good evening, sir."
"Have you behaved yourself today?"
"N-no, sir."
There is a knock on Megan's door. "Hey, Megan, it's me." It's Roderick, coming by to offer help on syllogisms.
"Damn!" mutters Megan. "Just getting to the good part." She closes the word processor, then runs to the door to greet Roderick.
Meanwhile, in Human Figure class, the instructor asks Molly to assume a pose as if she stands beneath a waterfall with her arms uplifted to catch the falling water. She does so. The aspiring artists, of which there are significantly more this year than last for some reason, gather around to interpret Molly's lovely form. It's cold in the room, and Molly has goose bumps. She thinks about Beethoven's Piano Sonata Opus 27 #1 in E-flat Major Quasi Una Fantasia, the one with the hilarious Scherzo whose recapitulation is not exactly like the exposition, the humor being in the "not exactly". The thought makes Molly giggle.
