Gretchen Dwynedowers, soon to be Mrs Gretchen St. Regis, sat in the drawing room of her Upper-West-Side apartment with her Mother, arranging the invite list for her upcoming wedding. Soon to marry a hedge fund executive from a prominent line of Bostonians, she really could not imagine that the world could be any more perfect. Nevertheless, there were always little gripes, or as she called them, "opportunities for improvement."
She addressed her Mother, a true family matriarch, in her best (meaning most screeching) trans-atlantic whine, "Must we really invite them Mother? They are some sort of middle ages throwback! Besides, they are very happy on their medieval island - they will not to take it to heart."
"No dear, I'm afraid your cousins must be invited. Don't argue. Your Father and I have our reasons."
Gretchen knew she had no choice but to acquiesce to the iron will of her Mother, and begrudgingly added the names of Lord and Lady Wellesley to the guest list. But she was not happy about this fact, and she resolved that if they must attend, then she would see to it that they would not find their visit accommodating.
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