Confessions of a Well-Meaning Woman
in touch with my agent. He’ll tell you my terms and make all arrangements.”
“But there are no arrangements to make,” I protested. “Lady Maitland told me that you were a new-comer to London, and I thought you might like to meet a few people. . .”
And then I told him that the princess had graciously promised to come.
The young man thought it over—for all the world as though he were at a bazaar and I were pressing him to buy something that he didn’t want! I was beside myself. . .
“I should like to meet her,” he was good enough to say. “She may be useful. All right, I’ll do it this once.”
And, do you know, it was on the tip of my tongue to say that never should he set foot inside my house! First of all inviting himself to dinner, then trying to make me pay him for coming. . . An artist I can understand; and a tradesman I can understand. But this hybrid. . .
And on the night he insisted on my presenting him to the princess. Insisted! There is no other word. . . She, of course, was too sweet . . . made no objection and even complimented him. I kept thinking of the old days. When my niece Phyllida came out just before the war, Brackenbury gave a ball for her
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