Percy Blend-Buttock unchaffed a spat and let out a jaw-cracking yawn. ‘It’s not fair, Flinty. I’m not the marrying kind…’

He grimaced to a halt as a voice that rose from stentorian towards pure fog-hornery exploded from the ambulance and silenced him.

‘Do not be absurd, boy. It’s Millicent Fallse-Elbough or you’re off to vet for a procedure.’

Flinty P-Smith leant away from the source of disappointment. ‘She’s a one, your aunt.’

Percy shuddered. ‘If only she was just a one. Experience tells me she’s a several and like a three-penny bit, each one is two-faced and many-sided.’

Flinty’s brows arched. ‘I thought she was a bit of a doll. What do you think, 

Arsons?’

‘It’s Parsons, Sir. Unlike your name the P is not silent. And so far as dolls go, I think the Lady Tiberius is more voodoo than velvetine.’ The Butler opened the ambulance door and handed the nervy young doctor a freshly starched antimacassar. ‘I think this might soothe her ladyship. How is the regal foot?’

Percy shut his eyes. ‘Cloven. I am not marrying Millie. She’s f…’

‘Forthright, Sir?’

‘Most of the time first, second and third right.’

‘I think, Sir, you should listen to your aunt.’

‘Parsons?’

‘There you go, Percy. Even your wretched butler agrees.’

Parsons put a long perfectly-formed finger to his lips and led his master away. ‘If I may be so bold, sir. Just apply your usual charm, propose and, well, I think you’ll have the answer you require.’

‘You mean she’ll refuse me?’

‘Exactly, Sir. Miss Millicent, while charming is also far too perspicacious to accept. And that will leave your aunt where I think she deserves to be.’

‘In plaster?’

‘In agony, Sir. Shall I serve the sherry?’

 This piece is in response to this week’s #microcosms prompt