What Ho!
Your day's plans most certainly don't involved being press ganged into some odious affair by dangerous American red haired heiresses.
Drawing upon a thousand years of the dignity of English aristocracy, you draw yourself up (while still remaining in bed, of course) and coldly issue your command.
"Timpson, kindly tell Miss MacGillicuddy...."
Your words are interrupted by a skirted horror stamping into your room. She puts her hands on her hips. "Tell Miss MacGillicuddy what, you screwball?" She taps her foot.
"Um, that she can come in, I suppose" you say, eyeing the open window.
Timpson coughs "Miss MacGillicuddy" he says uselessly. "Sir," he adds as an afterthought.
Drawing upon a thousand years of the dignity of English aristocracy, you draw yourself up (while still remaining in bed, of course) and coldly issue your command.
"Timpson, kindly tell Miss MacGillicuddy...."
Your words are interrupted by a skirted horror stamping into your room. She puts her hands on her hips. "Tell Miss MacGillicuddy what, you screwball?" She taps her foot.
"Um, that she can come in, I suppose" you say, eyeing the open window.
Timpson coughs "Miss MacGillicuddy" he says uselessly. "Sir," he adds as an afterthought.