The two went into a huddle at the end of the room; they were still there half an hour later.

From Trying to Please by John Julius Norwich.  Page 237.

Then one day in the summer of 1963 the telephone rang. It was John Henniker-Major, Head of Personnel Department. “John Julius, tell me—how good is your Italian?”

“Well John, it’s sort of holiday Italian, shopping Italian, but frankly not up to all that much. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, only that we were thinking of sending you as dogsbody to the Duke of Norfolk, who’s representing the Queen at the Pope’s coronation.”

I backpedaled as hard as I could. “Oh well I mean, you know, it’s perfectly OK for conversational purposes, I mean I can chat away all right if that’s all you want. . . .”

I heard him chuckle, but I got the job; and a few days later the Duke and I found ourselves in first class seats heading for Rome, and in particular for the British Legation to the Holy See where we were to stay. I had never met him before, but loved him from the start; he was friendly, chatty, and without a grain of pomposity. “You see,” he said, “I’ve still got the Earl Marshal’s uniform that was made for my father. Wore it at the Coronation ten years ago, but afraid I’ve put on a bit of weight since then, so the moment I heard the old Pope had hiccups I went on a diet. Been on it ever since. Ought just about to get into that uniform if I hold my breath, but it’s going to be a damn close thing.” Soon afterwards he got on to the love of his life, cricket. Feeling rather differently about the game, I trod water as best I could. Then he started to speculate on the reception for the Commonwealth Cardinals, which was to be held an hour or two after our arrival. “Oh my word,” he said, “I do hope old Gracious will be there. Haven’t seen old Gracious for ages—wonderful to see him again.”

He went on in this vein for some time; at last I had to interrupt.

“Forgive me, sir,” I said, “but—who is old Gracious?”

“Oh sorry,” he said, “thought you knew. Cardinal Bishop of Bombay. Gracias, I think he pronounces it, or something like that, but I always call him old Gracious. Splendid chap, used to play for Middlesex.”

We arrived to find Rome in the grip of a heat wave. Safe at the Legation, we just managed to fit in a cold shower and put on our blue suits in time for the reception. In those days—and, I very much hope, still today—cardinals attending formal functions of this kind would come in full cardinalian fig—robes in those wonderful clashing shades of purple, scarlet, and orange and preceded by two men carrying long lighted candles. There were six altogether from the Commonwealth, and old Gracious arrived first: a vision of ecclesiastical splendor, well over six foot, his dark face glowing in the candlelight. The Duke immediately charged towards him and did a quick genuflection, but almost before he was upright the cardinal had grasped him by the hand. “Oh my dear Duke, what a pleasure to see you again. I say, what are Yorkshire thinking they are doing? 158 for 7, oh my God, it’s a bloody disaster. . . .” The two went into a huddle at the end of the room; they were still there half an hour later.