Confessions of a Well-Meaning Woman
one dull old woman. . . I should explain that our scheme of house-parties broke down; the women, indeed, came, but man after man failed us at the last moment. One spent Friday morning despatching one’s staff in turn to the telephone with names and more names and yet more names. . .
I found it hard to believe that all the “Bunnies” and “Theos” were in such request, but no enlightenment was vouchsafed until our return to Mount Street. If there had been a panic when we left London, the phrase sauve-qui-peut is hardly too strong for the condition we found awaiting us. Some one had industriously spread this story that Mrs. Sawyer was a mere adventuress, and everybody was anxiously disclaiming all acquaintance with her. I have suggested that for months it was impossible to enter South Audley Street without running into Mr. “Reggie” Gorleigh; with my own ears I heard him say: “Mrs. Sawyer? Oh, that South American woman! I think I know who you mean.”
For sheer audacity. . .
“I don’t know what else you would expect,” said Major Blanstock one day. “People in London will take anything from anybody—and go on taking it so long as they think there’s money about. If you whisper that they may
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