Irony abounds at Zouch Manor.

The other night, one of the editors helped Mr. Zouch settle into his fireside club chair. The old man planned to read Arthur Conan Doyle’s “The Adventure of the Golden Pince-Nez.”

“My favorite writer,” he said, settling into the old leather. “And his great character is a fellow gentleman genius.”

When Mr. Zouch reached into his jacket pocket, though, to retrieve is own pair of spectacles, he found they were missing. He immediately commanded a full search of the house, but we turned up little more than three buttons, a canvas bag of dimmicks, the bones of a long-forgotten rodent, and an uncomfortably explicit love letter that seemed to confirm Mr. Zouch’s periodic boasts about his youthful conquests.

$(KGrHqV,!h0FBI4rpqbQBQigzhdu0w~~60_12The next morning, as we listened to Mr. Zouch mutter about his myopia, the editors found several lists of suitable replacements.

More than one of us is hoping he’ll choose the Cobain frame with Calvin Harris lenses.