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Author's Chapter Notes:
The morning after, in which we also meet Mark.

For Jim Halpert the rest of the ball passed in something of a blur. His memories were selective, in that he carried with him only those moments that seemed significant at the time, and even in that moment he was completely aware of only Pam. So the time after his self-willed departure from her was a shadow of a shade to him, filled only with the dull sensation of a toothache, or perhaps a sharp head cold—the indefinable sense that something internal was wrong, with the complementary awareness that nothing one could do would eliminate the sensation short of massive surgery or an explosive but unplannable set of sneezes. As the heart was generally agreed to be incapable of solving its own problems, and Jim had neither a surgeon in mind nor the inclination to seek out one if he had, he had concluded that the concern was therefore inoperable and incurable, and had done his best to focus on his surroundings, but the true depth of his feeling made this impossible, so he remembered nothing except for Colonel Scott (Michael! as he breezily insisted Jim call him after several rounds of what Jim suspected to be less than entirely top-flight whiskey) pounding him on the back and calling him “my boy!” in cheerful tones. He was uncertain in retrospect what might have inaugurated this particular outburst of good feeling, but as it had undeniably resulted in his being gifted with the Colonel’s card and an assurance of further acquaintance by several persons of substantially higher financial, if not social, standing, he could not bring himself to regret it, even as he suspected (knowing the Colonel even the little that he did) that he should.

 

Jim awoke in his own bed, in his own pyjamas, wrapped (as was his wont) in a rather intense bundle of his bedclothes, with the sun shining in through a crack in the curtains. He was relieved to find himself not only alone, but properly attired for slumber, and this relief astonishingly outlasted the appearance of his valet, who informed him that the Viscount was equally abed, though not (between the two of them) seeming to have enjoyed his night as much as Mr. Halpert, if the valet might say so. Jim changed smoothly into a more suitable ensemble for the morning (sharp, but not too sharp—not only did Jim’s own style and sadly weakened pocketbook militate against too closely following the vagaries of fashion, but any move in that direction was likely to cause murmurs that the Viscount Banbury was supporting him, an allegation that offended both his sense of honour and reality). He made his way downstairs to the small dining room attached to the kitchen, greeted the cook, and set down to his breakfast. The table was set for two, although the Viscount had not yet arisen, and Jim moved with the efficiency of long habit to the one of the two place-settings that faced the staircase, allowing him to greet Mark when the latter languidly made his way to the same table—whenever he might choose to do so, which was rarely before noon. A glance at the grandfather clock suggested that this meal was unlikely to be interrupted by that worthy, as it was only half ten. Jim, not himself habitually an early riser, wondered momentarily at the vast array of foodstuffs arranged on his plate—Cook had chosen a full English this morning, and while he was willing to believe that the bacon was, as it should be, cut from the belly of some anonymous pig, he found himself of the firm belief that the bangers, if such they could be called, were not sausages at all but the limbs of some enormous tree, perhaps from some Indian jungle or American wilderness. If that were so, he decided, the eggs were of similar vintage, for only in such a tree as the sausages represented could so large a bird find roostage. He amazed himself by devouring the whole, remarking to himself (his valet having swiftly and silently withdrawn to see to straightening Mr. Halpert’s personal effects and Cook being otherwise occupied with the occult affairs of the kitchen) that he had no idea social affairs could make a man so hungry. He chased the lot with nearly the entire pot of tea, leaving only enough so that Mark could, if he chose, furnish himself a single cup (though in point of fact, Jim suspected that by the time that gentleman had shown his face downstairs time would have necessitated the brewing of a new pot) and bestirred himself into the parlor, where the morning’s newspapers were set out. These he disturbed only enough to reassure himself that no great upheavals of a diplomatic sort had erupted in the previous twenty-four hours, before turning to the cricket scores from Lords. These engrossed him for a good half an hour, at which time, it being still only eleven and the Viscount not in evidence, he picked a volume from the bookshelf at random—something relatively new by one of the Shelleys, Mark being somewhat avant garde in his tastes—and began to read.

 

Mark’s descent an hour later found him utterly engrossed in the dealings of a diabolical doctor and his invented patient-cum-child. He set the volume aside with some regret to make small talk with his friend, whose evident triumph regarding Jim’s social success the previous evening began to make him feel somewhat better about the whole thing.

 

“There you are, chap!” cried Mark, clapping him on the shoulder. “Told you Scott would be just the ticket. He holds a ball every other week, so if you’re on his shortlist you’re set. And I wouldn’t half-bet that once you’re known as one of his set you’ll find yourself on the list at a great deal more, too, so don’t you worry that you’ll be kicking up your heels. We’ll find you a commission of some sort at one of them, I fancy—probably not Scott’s, the man’s simply too too—but somewhere. And who knows,” he added, his eyes twinkling, “maybe we’ll find you a wife there too.”

 

He was too caught up in his own musings to catch Jim’s face fall for a moment, and by the time he looked around Jim had schooled his countenance into a more appropriate expression—though apparently something was still lacking, for he only laughed and said “Oh, I don’t mean you should be one of these men like…Major Packer or somesuch, who throws himself at even woman he meets, almost bodily, or that you should think yourself obliged to marry for money, or to take the first woman who comes your way. But I do mean to see you hitched, Halpert, before me, or at any rate not long behind!” With that he strode into the dining room, calling out to cook for his nuncheon, and Jim returned to his book, but not before rolling his eyes heavenward and wondering if his flatmate had the least idea what he was talking about. Viscount Banbury was a catch on the marriage market, with eligible ladies and their mothers setting hooks in his way; Jim Halpert, Honourable as he was, knew himself no such thing, and wondered if, like the character, his only hope of posterity was ingenious, not purely biological. With that thought he re-engrossed himself in the doings of the devious doctor and tried to put marriage—and the thoughts of Pamela Beesly that had floated in adjacent to it—utterly out of his mind.

Chapter End Notes:
Now that we're out of the first ball, time will begin moving somewhat faster (though not like a rocket by any means). Reviews, jellybeans, and particularly fast carrier pigeons are appreciated.

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