It had been absolute weeks since Betty Commilfaux had dragooned Thorny into appearing at one of her parties, and only then in the middle of the night, with no benefit of prior tweet to publicise her triumph. She caught him, though, dozing off into the consommé at a lunch for one of their common charities, and snapt a photo of his bouilloned mane for safe keeping, to exchange for acquiescence in her next invitation. Everything was arranged to celebrate her glory, at the opening of her summer place on Gin Lane, with lunch for 40 on the morning terrace. All went well until the crayfish bisque seduced his cheek to soothe itself within the brim of her best Dresden.
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