It was the Christmas party at Heighton that was one of the
turning-points in Perkins' life. The Duchess had sent him a three-page
wire in the hyperbolical style of her class, conveying a vague
impression that she and the Duke had arranged to commit suicide
together if Perkins didn't "chuck" any previous engagement he had
made. And Perkins had felt in a slipshod sort of way--for at this
period he was incapable of ordered thought--he might as well be at
Heighton as anywhere....

The enormous house was almost full. There must have been upwards of
fifty people sitting down to every meal. Many of these were members of
the family. Perkins was able to recognise them by their unconvoluted
ears--the well-known Grifford ear, transmitted from one generation to
another. For the rest there were the usual lot from the Front Benches
and the Embassies. Evesham was there, clutching at the lapels of his
coat; and the Prescotts--he with his massive mask of a face, and she
with her quick, hawk-like ways, talking about two things at a time;
old Tommy Strickland, with his monocle and his dropped g's, telling
you what he had once said to Mr. Disraeli; Boubou Seaforth and his
American wife; John Pirram, ardent and elegant, spouting old French
lyrics; and a score of others.

Perkins had got used to them by now. He no longer wondered what
they were "up to," for he knew they were up to nothing whatever. He
reflected, while he was dressing for dinner on Christmas night, how
odd it was he had ever thought of Using them. He might as well have
hoped to Use the Dresden shepherds and shepherdesses that grinned out
in the last stages of refinement at him from the glazed cabinets in
the drawing-rooms.... Or the Labour Members themselves....