Confessions of a Well-Meaning Woman
“I don’t want to look a fool, that’s all,” said Will.
“My dear boy,” I reassured him, “if she were a complete impostor, does one make a fool of oneself by asking her to dinner once or twice? If so, I am afraid I rank hospitality above my own personal dignity.”
As a matter of fact, it was all the other way. Mrs. Sawyer developed a mania for entertaining. I went gingerly at first, for one had seen so many rastaquouères treading that road, but no fault could be found with her methods. Either through Connie Maitland or others, she seemed to know every one, and you went to the little réunions in South Audley Street with the certainty that, if you did not meet all your friends there, at least every one that you met would be a friend. I enjoyed her parties; indeed, I only hope that she enjoyed them as much as we did, though I confess I sometimes looked at those tragic black eyes and wondered what amusement it could give her.
Stay! There was one blot: her hospitality left one no opportunity of making an adequate return. Where there is a marked difference of means, I am the last to suggest that one should proceed on the principle of “a cutlet for a cutlet and a quail for a quail”, but it is uncomfortable to feel that everything is coming
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