Confessions of a Well-Meaning Woman
offensive without being particularly amusing. . . I have lost the thread. . .
Ah, yes! My little party. One thing I noticed on returning to England was the extraordinary mixture of people that one met everywhere. For this, though I am personally fond of her, I blame Connie Maitland more than any dozen other women. Not being a persona grata in certain circles to which she would dearly like to have the entrée, she seems to cultivate numbers for their own sake. When the princess . . . More by a hint, you understand, than by any direct criticism. . . But she cannot help seeing that the old barriers have been broken down. . . It is always on the tip of my tongue to make my Lady Maitland wholly responsible. During the war one was flung against these people, as it were: the strangest generals who seemed to have been stock-brokers the moment before. . . All that sort of thing. . . “Captains of Industry” (I believe they are called) with the queerest accents and all holding high office. There was an epidemic of cabinet rank; and, if one had business in Whitehall, one met the oddest people—never the same two days running. Connie Maitland thoroughly enjoyed herself, I always felt; so many new people to know before any one else. (I am not ashamed to confess that it is not my ambition simply to
209
