Confessions of a Well-Meaning Woman
and asked me to do what I could (Ruth is worse than useless on such occasions, because she tries to cover up her ignorance by saying it doesn’t matter—and being obstinate about it). I ordered the band—from those really nice people in Clifford Street—; and the princess was present on that occasion too. I wondered what we should have thought if the leader had strolled up, baton in hand, and said: “Oh, won’t you present me to Her Royal Highness?” . . .
I will say this boy played well. Magnetically. . . The whole room was silent and motionless. One looked up through a mist, as it were, and saw rows of rapt faces, a regiment of men by the walls, a mere black and white cloud by the door.
At first I did not notice. . .
I mean, one cannot be expected to identify eighty or a hundred people all at once; the princess was obviously my first concern, and, when this young fellow ceased playing and I stood up, naturally I imagined that they would all come forward. So they did . . . some of them. I am not good at recognizing people, so I made allowances for myself; but, even so, a great many of the faces were unfamiliar. Nothing in that, you may say; a little music and some light refreshments — sandwiches and cake, you know, with perhaps claret-cup and
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