My
father and mother sat by themselves on two red velvet arm-chairs
in a sort of pew-throne that projected into the Chapel. The Aide-
de-Camp in waiting, an extremely youthful warrior as a rule, had
to stand until the door of the pew was shut, when a folding wooden
flap was lowered across the aperture, on which he seated himself,
with his back resting against the pew door. At the conclusion of
the service the Verger always opened the pew door with a sudden
"click." Should the Aide-de-Camp be unprepared for this and happen
to be leaning against the door, with any reasonable luck he was
almost certain to tumble backwards into the aisle, "taking a
regular toss," as hunting-men would say, and to our unspeakable
delight we would see a pair of slim legs in overalls and a pair of
spurred heels describing a graceful parabola as they followed
their youthful owner into the aisle. This particular form of
religious relaxation appealed to me enormously, and I looked
forward to it every Sunday.
It was an episode that could only occur once with each person, for
forewarned was forearmed; still, as we had twelve Aides-de-Camp,
and they were constantly changing, the pew door played its
practical joke quite often enough to render the Services in the
Chapel Royal very attractive and engrossing, and I noticed that no
Aide-de-Camp was ever warned of his possible peril.
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