I galloped fruitlessly through 'Atalanta in Calydon' the other day in search of a telling bit of dialogue for a fortysomething Frank Maddox, and drew an utter blank, so I sympathise.

Well, I only meant that the hand gripping the tripod and his reflections on Harriet's desirability despite lack of embonpoint suggest the very slightest of tremors in Bunter's otherwise ironclad breast...