Confessions of a Well-Meaning Woman
house by sheer—but I prefer not to discuss it. “Indecency” is really the only word; under the guise of an ethical discussion. . As we literally cannot sit down more than twenty-four in Mount Street, two spare places are a consideration. I was fortunate enough to secure the Duke and Duchess of Yarrow; one had not seen much of them for some years, and the duchess is so deaf that I sometimes wonder whether she is really quite right in her head, but the duke is a director of the Far East Trading Company, and I thought that, if Will ever did think of going abroad to seek his fortune, the duke ought to know of it before he was snapped up by any one else. The others. . . But I expect you saw the list; it was in all the papers—the Bishop of Hatwell, dear old Lady Ursula Bedmont, the Minister of Fine Arts, the Spanish Ambassador. . .
Or was it the Italian? I’m quite stupid about remembering who was there. It was so long since I’d given a party of any kind that I’m not ashamed to confess I was a little nervous. And we began badly: Lord Fenchurch, who really grows more and more absent-minded every day, arrived with a black tie and one of those detestable little jackets that young men affect in theatres. Arthur was waiting in the hall to receive the princess and in a
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