(Query: What is soapstone? Association here with Lord Darling, but cannot work out in full.)
More and more anxious about non-appearance of Pamela P., especially when three more guests arrive--black two-piece, black coat-and-skirt, and black crêpe-de-chine with orange-varnished nails. (My Blue now definitely revealed as inferior imitation of Joseph's coat, no less, and of very nearly equal antiquity.)
They all call one another by Christian names, and have much to say about mutual friends, none of whom I have ever heard of before. Someone called Goo-goo has had influenza, and while this is being discussed, I am impelled to violent sneezing fit. Everybody looks at me in horror, and conversation suffers severe check.
(Note: Optimistic conviction that two handkerchiefs will last out through one luncheon party utterly unjustified in present circumstances. Never forget this again.)
Door flies open and Pamela Pringle, of whom I have now given up all hope, rushes in, kisses everybody, falls over little dog--which has mysteriously appeared out of the blue and vanishes again after being fallen over--and says Oh do we all know one another, and isn't she a fearfully bad hostess but she simply could not get away from Amédé, who really is a Pet. (Just as I have decided that Amédé is another little dog, it turns out that he is a Hairdresser.)
Lunch is announced, and we all show customary reluctance to walking out of the room in simple and straightforward fashion, and cluster round the threshold with self-depreciating expressions until herded out by Pamela. I find myself sitting next to her--quite undeserved position of distinction, and probably intended for somebody else--with extraordinarily elegant black crêpe-de-chine on other side.
Black crepe-de-chine says that she adored my book, and so did her husband, and her sister-in-law, who is Clever and never says Anything unless she really Means It, thought it quite marvellous. Having got this off her chest, she immediately begins to talk about recent visit of her own to Paris, and am forced to the conclusion that her standards of sincerity must fall definitely below those of unknown sister-in-law.
Try to pretend that I know Paris as well as she does, but can see that she is not in the least taken in by this.
Pamela says Oh, did she see Georges in Paris, and what are the new models like? but crêpe-de-chine shakes her head and says Not out yet, and Georges never will show any Spring things before December, at very earliest--which to me sounds reasonable, but everybody else appears to feel injured about it, and Pamela announces that she sometimes thinks seriously about letting Gaston make for her instead of Georges--which causes frightful sensation. Try my best to look as much startled and horrified as everybody else, which is easy as am certain that I am about to sneeze again--which I do.
(Both handkerchiefs now definitely soaked through and through, and sore will be out on upper lip before day is over.)
Conversation veers about between Paris, weight-reduction--(quite unnecessary, none of them can possibly weigh more than seven stone, if that)--and annexation by someone called Diana of second husband of someone else called Tetsie, which everyone agrees was utterly justified, but no reason definitely given for this, except that Tetsie is a perfect darling, we all know, but no one on earth could possibly call her smartly turned-out.
(Feel that Tetsie and I would have at least one thing in common, which is more than I can say about anybody else in the room--but this frame of mind verging on the sardonic, and not to be encouraged.)
Pamela turns to me just as we embark on entirely admirable coupe Jacques, and talks about books, none of which have been published for more than five minutes and none of which, in consequence, I have as yet read--but feel that I am expected to be on my own ground here, and must--like Mrs. Dombey--make an effort, which I do by the help of remembering Literary Criticisms in Time and Tide's issue of yesterday.
Interesting little problem hovers on threshold of consciousness here: How on earth do Pamela and her friends achieve conversation about books which I am perfectly certain they have none of them read? Answer, at the moment, baffles me completely.
Return to drawing-room ensues; I sneeze again, but discover that extreme left-hand corner of second pocket handkerchief is still comparatively dry, which affords temporary, but distinct, consolation.
On the whole, am definitely relieved when emerald-brooch owner says that It is too, too sad, but she must fly, as she really is responsible for the whole thing, and it can't begin without her--which might mean a new Permanent Wave, or a command performance at Buckingham Palace, but shall never now know which, as she departs without further explanation.
Make very inferior exit of my own, being quite unable to think of any reason for going except that I have been wanting to almost ever since I arrived,--which cannot, naturally, be produced. Pamela declares that having me has been Quite Wonderful, and we part.
Go straight home and to bed, and Housekeeper from upstairs most kindly brings me hot tea and cinnamon, which are far too welcome for me to make enquiry that conscience prompts, as to their rightful ownership.
October 23rd.--Telephone bell rings at extraordinary hour of eleven-eighteen P.M., and extremely agitated voice says Oh is that me, to which I return affirmative answer and rather curt rider to the effect that I have been in bed for some little while. Voice then reveals itself as belonging to Pamela P.--which doesn't surprise me in the least--who is, she says, in great, great trouble, which she cannot possibly explain. (Should much like to ask whether it was worth while getting me out of bed in order to hear that no explanation is available.) But, Pamela asks, will I, whatever happens, swear that she has spent the evening with me, in my flat? If I will not do this, then it is--once more--perfectly impossible to say what will happen. But Pamela knows that I will--I always was a darling--and I couldn't refuse such a tiny, tiny thing, which is simply a question of life and death.
Am utterly stunned by all this, and try to gain time by enquiring weakly if Pamela can by any chance tell me where she really has spent the evening? Realise as soon as I have spoken that this is not a tactful question, and am not surprised when muffled scream vibrates down receiver into my ear. Well, never mind that, then, I say, but just give me some idea as to who is likely to ask me what Pamela's movements have been, and why. Oh, replies Pamela, she is the most absolutely misunderstood woman on earth, and don't I feel that men are simply brutes? There isn't one of them--not one--whom one can trust to be really tolerant and broad-minded and understanding. They only want One Thing.
Feel quite unable to cope with this over telephone wire, and am, moreover, getting cold, and find attention straying towards possibility of reaching switch of electric fire with one hand whilst holding receiver with the other. Flexibility of the human frame very remarkable, but cannot altogether achieve this and very nearly overbalance, but recover in time to hear Pamela saying that if I will do this one thing for her, she will never, never forget it. There isn't anyone else, she adds, whom she could ask. (Am not at all sure if this is any compliment.) Very well, I reply, if asked, I am prepared to say that Pamela spent the evening with me here, but I hope that no one will ask and Pamela must distinctly understand that this is the first and last time I shall ever do anything of the kind. Pamela begins to be effusive, but austere voice from the unseen says that Three Minutes is Up, will we have another Three, to which we both say No simultaneously, and silence abruptly supervenes.
Crawl into bed again feeling exactly as if I had been lashed to an iceberg and then dragged at the cart's tail. Very singular and unpleasant sensation. Spend disturbed and uncomfortable night, evolving distressing chain of circumstances by which I may yet find myself at the Old Bailey committing