 Bussmann's honeymoon, by Dorothy L. Sayers, read by Ian Carmichael, to Muriel St. Clair Byrne, Helen Simpson, and Marjorie Barber. Dear Muriel, Helen, and Bar, with what extreme of womanly patience you listened to the tale of Bussmann's honeymoon while it was being written, The Lord He Knows. I do not like to think how many times I tired the sun with talking, and if at any time they told me you were dead, I should easily have believed that I had taught you into your graves. But you have strangely survived to receive these thanks. You, Muriel, were in some part a predestined victim, since you wrote with me the play to which this novel is but the limbs and outward flourishes. My debt and your long suffering are all the greater. You, Helen, and Bar, were wantonly sacrificed on the altar of their friendship, of which the female sex is said to be incapable. Let the lie stick in the wall. To all three I humbly bring I dedicate with tears this sentimental comedy. It has been said by myself and others that a love interest is only an intrusion upon a detective story, but to the characters involved, the detective interest might well seem an irritating intrusion upon their love story. This book deals with such a situation. It also provides some sort of answer to many kindly inquiries as to how Lord Peter and his Harriet solved their matrimonial problem. If there is but a haphazard detection to an intolerable deal of saccharine, let the occasion be the excuse. Yours in all gratitude, Dorothy L. says. On the 8th October at St. Cross Church, Oxford, Peter D. Athe Breedon Whimsy, second son of the late Gerald Mortimer Breedon Whimsy, 15th Duke of Denver, to Harriet Deborah Vain, only daughter of the late Henry Vain M.D., of great Pagford Huts. Mirabel, Countess of Seven and Thames, to Honoria Lucasta, Dowager, Duchess of Denver. My dear Honoria, so Peter is really married. I have ordered willow reeds for half my acquaintance. I understand that it is a deciduous tree. If nothing is available but the bear rods, I shall distribute them all the same for the better beating of breasts. Honestly, as one frankle woman to the other, how do you feel about it? A cynic should of course be grateful, since to see your amorous sweet devil of a son wedded to an Oxford Bloomsbury blue stocking should add considerably to the gait of the season.