Thomas Keeling, pillar of Bracebridge society, dwells at The Cedars, a house furnished with the kind of treasures that announce wealth rather than taste, including a small stuffed crocodile rampant, frozen forever in what appears to be a furious leap. Keeling stalks through this opulence like a man semaphoring dignity while drowning quietly beneath it. His true retreat is a book-lined study, and his secret passion arrives in the form of Norah, his young secretary, who catches one unguarded glimpse of the man beneath the manner. What follows is a delicious dissection of English propriety: the gulf between what is said and what is felt, the weight of appearances, the small cruelties delivered with perfect politeness. Benson's comedy cuts deep, a comedy of manners that is also a tragedy of repression, where buried feelings clash with the pompous surface of a world that mistakes stiffness for virtue. The satire moves gently but lands precisely, exposing the absurdity of a class that would rather die than be caught feeling something genuine.
