the reader of books

Oh, Nancy. I long to be a character out of one of your books, even if it is one of your earlier efforts.

Walter and Sally Monteath are madly in love but very poor (though, of course, Sally's engagement ring comes from Cartier and the couple celebrates their engagement with a champagne-fueled night at the Ritz). Sally's aunt and uncle ask her to housesit their castle in Scotland, which, to Sally's mind, is a perfect way to economize. They invite the flamboyant writer Albert, late from Paris, and Jane, who is sort of a mix between the lovelorn Linda Radlett and sensible Fanny (or Fanny from Don't Tell Alfred). The old friends of Sally's aunt and uncle are also staying at the castle, and are utterly shocked and appalled by the young people, particularly Albert, who wears an array of spectacularly terrible outfits. Of course, because this is Nancy Mitford, hilarity ensues: Sally, Jane, Walter, and Albert go on shocking the older guests, mostly by laying in bed until lunchtime, scoffing hunting and fishing, talking about art, and frowning upon WWI. And of course, also in true Mitford-form, two of the young people fall madly in love but act completely stupid about it.

Really, there is no better author for a comic view of the interwar love affairs of the idle rich. That sentence pretty much sums up everything I love in life.