Confessions of a Well-Meaning Woman
sufficiently heavy, but I was evidently to be spared nothing. Some of the men were not even sober! As I came on to the landing, some one said—with great elegance—:
“Here, old thing, you’d better go home and sleep it off.”
Don’t let me claim more pity than I deserve! I was spared a free fight. When the Arbiter of Taste had returned from escorting his friend downstairs, I said to him:
“I must beg for enlightenment. There has evidently been a mistake. I cannot remember having invited you; and I think you must have come to the wrong house.”
He looked a little surprised, but rallied at once and pulled from his pocket a menu with the address written on it.
“We were told that you were giving a dance and that we might come,” he said. “I am addressing Lady Ann Spenworth, am I not?”
“You are,” I said, “but there’s some hideous mistake. Dance? There’s no dance. Who told you?’
“Lord Spenworth,” he answered. “At the regimental dinner. He said that you were giving a party; some of us were a bit shy of coming without an invitation, but he assured us that we should be as welcome as he was. We’d
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