THE TEPID RECEPTION
Harleton Camber glanced down to reassure himself that the creases in his trousers were knifed perfection. They were. He noted the carnation artfully perched on his lapel in effulgent perfection, a song of white. Reassured, he tapped lightly on the gong. The door swung open. He entered the solarium. Over the heads of the amiably chatting crowd he saw his hostess leaning at the perfect angle against a tray of muffins. Not a soul paid him the slightest heed as he worked his way through the happy gauntlet of guests to greet her.
‘Alice, I am here,’ he said when he reached her side.
The party addressed flicked her eyes left to engage Camber, then down to examine his shoes, up to examine his waves of raven hair. Her eyes flicked away, never more to flick back again.
Harleton Camber now knew that the only option open to him was janitorial work in a graduate school somewhere in the midwest. 24 hours later, he was on a train to Iowa.
