On Baked Goods
The last week was spent in nervous expectation of Patrick regaining full cognizance of his surroundings. The “hero” is now the toast of London, and not a day has passed without a servant or footman pounding on the door and extending an invitation to a banquet or dinner. These invitations are not, in turn, extended to either Jack or me. Some even have the temerity to address their notes “Patrick Thrasher ONLY” which has Jack in a state of fits.
Now I would be content to let Patrick deal with his fame and catch up on my sleep, but at present he is incapable of receiving any visitors. In fact, the only word that he has said since his accident is “muffin.” Now “muffin” might be some sort of endearment for Odyllia. Or it might be a request for breakfast. What “muffin” is not, is a suitable response to the Duke of Glouchester’s request for your presence at his ball. This is a shame, since the Duke's daughter is reputed to sport the best pair of “muffins” in all of England.