Confessions of a Well-Meaning Woman
from one side. My own conscience is clear, for we had done our part; Mrs. Sawyer had in fact dined with us once in Mount Street—just Will and me; I am not in a position to entertain in the old sense of the word—, we had asked her again at least once, and she had never been able to come. It was always: “Oh, won’t you come to me? And whom shall I ask to meet you? And would you prefer just to dine or shall we go to a play?” All in that charming almost-broken English of hers. It would have been ungracious to refuse. . .
I confess that I never saw and do not see to this day how some of the “Have-Beens” justified their existence. I mean. Will and I dined or lunched or went to a play with her three and four times a week, simply because Major Blanstock told us that she was alone in London and Connie Maitland had asked me to look after her. I can assure you, we never went to South Audley Street without finding a little cluster of “Bunnies” and “Theos” and the rest.
I tackled one of them about it. . . This is between ourselves, but it was Mr. Gorleigh—“Reggie” Gorleigh, I suppose I should call him, to be in the fashion.
“You seem a great friend of Mrs. Sawyer,” I said. “I am always meeting you here. Tell
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