We abandon mutual entertainment with great relief shortly afterwards, and my other neighbour talks to me about books, says that he has read mine and proves it by a quotation, and I decide that he must be distinguished critic spoken of by H. de L. de la P. Tell him the story of window-cleaner, introducing several quite new variations, and he is most encouraging, laughs heartily, and makes me feel that I am a witty and successful raconteuse--which in saner moments I know very well that I am not.
(Query: Has this anything to do with the champagne? Answer, almost certainly, Yes, everything.)
Amusing neighbour and myself continue to address one another exclusively--fleeting wonder as to what young creature in black feels about me--and am sorry when obliged to ascend to drawing-room for customary withdrawal. Have a feeling that H. de L. de la P.--who eyes me anxiously--is thinking that I am Rather A Mistake amongst people who all know one another very well indeed. Try to tell myself that this is imagination, and all will be easier when drinking coffee, which will not only give me occupation--always a help--but clear my head, which seems to be buzzing slightly.
H. de L. de la P. refers to Pamela--everybody in the room evidently an intimate friend of Pamela's, and general galvanisation ensues. Isn't she adorable? says very smart black-and-white woman, and Doesn't that new platinum hair suit her too divinely? asks somebody else, and we all cry Yes, quite hysterically, to both. H. de L. de la P. then points me out and proclaims--having evidently found a raison d' etre for me at last--that I have known Pamela for years and years--longer than any of them. I instantly become focus of attention, and everyone questions me excitedly.
Do I know what became of the second husband?--Templer-Something was his name. No explanation ever forthcoming of his disappearance, and immediate replacement by somebody else. Have I any idea of Pamela's real age? Of course she looks too, too marvellous, but it is an absolute fact that her eldest child can't possibly be less than fifteen, and it was the child of the second marriage, not the first.
Do I know anything about that Pole who used to follow her about everywhere, and was supposed to have been shot by his wife in Paris on account of P. P.?
Is it true that Pringle--unfortunate man--isn't going to stand it any longer and has threatened to take Pamela out to Alaska to live?
And is she--poor darling--still going about with the second husband of that woman she's such friends with?
Supply as many answers as I can think of to all this, and am not perturbed as to their effect, feeling perfectly certain that whatever I say Pamela's dear friends have every intention of believing, and repeating, whatever they think most sensational and nothing else.
This conviction intensified when they, in their turn, overwhelm me with information.
Do I realise, says phenomenally slim creature with shaven eyebrows, that Pamela will really get herself into difficulties one of these days, if she isn't more careful? That, says the eyebrows--impressively, but surely inaccurately--is Pamela's trouble. She isn't careful. Look at the way she behaved with that South American millionaire at Le Touquet!
Look, says somebody else, at her affair with the Prince. Reckless--no other word for it.
Finally H. de L. de la P.--who has been quietly applying lip-stick throughout the conversation--begs us all to Look at the type of man that falls for Pamela. She knows that Pamela is attractive, of course--sex-appeal, and all that--but after all, that can't go on for ever, and then what will be left? Nothing whatever. Pamela's men aren't the kind to go on being devoted. They simply have this brief flare-up, and then drift off to something younger and newer. Every time. Always.
Everybody except myself agrees, and several people look rather relieved about it. Conversation closes, as men are heard upon the stairs, with H. de L. de la P. assuring us all that Pamela is one of her very dearest friends, and she simply adores her--which is supported by assurances of similar devotion from everyone else. Remain for some time afterwards in rather stunned condition, thinking about Friendship, and replying quite mechanically, and no doubt unintelligently, to thin man who stands near me--(wish he would sit, am getting crick in my neck)--and talks about a drawing in Punch of which he thought very highly, but cannot remember if it was Raven Hill or Bernard Partridge, nor what it was about, except that it had something to do with Geneva.
Evening provides no further sensation, and am exceedingly sleepy long before somebody in emeralds and platinum makes a move. Pleasant man who sat next me at dinner has hoped, in agreeable accents, that we shall meet again--I have echoed the hope, but am aware that it has no foundation in probability--and H. de L. de la P. has said, at parting, that she is so glad I have had an opportunity of meeting her cousin, very well known critic. Do not like to tell her that I have never identified this distinguished littérateur at all, and leave the house still uninformed as to whether he was, or was not, either of my neighbours at dinner. Shall probably now never know.
July 1st.--Once more prepare to leave London, and am haunted by words of out-of-date song once popular: How're you Going to Keep' em Down on the Farm, Now that they've seen Paree? Answer comes there none.
Day filled with various activities, including packing, which I dislike beyond anything on earth and do very badly--write civil letter to H. de L. de la P. to say that I enjoyed her dinner-party, and ring up Rose in order to exchange good-byes. Rose, as usual, is out--extraordinary gadabout dear Rose is--and I leave rather resentful message with housekeeper, and return to uncongenial task of folding garments in sheets of tissue paper that are always either much too large or a great deal too small.
Suitcase is reluctant to close, I struggle for some time and get very hot, success at last, and am then confronted by neatly folded dressing-gown which I have omitted to put in.
Telephone rings and turns out to be Emma Hay, who is very very excited about satire which she says she has just written and which will set the whole of London talking. If I care to come round at once, says Emma, she is reading it aloud to a few Really Important People, and inviting free discussion and criticism afterwards.
I express necessary regrets, and explain that I am returning to the country in a few hours' time.
What, shrieks Emma, leaving London? Am I mad? Do I intend to spend the whole of the rest of my life pottering about the kitchen, and seeing that Robert gets his meals punctually, and that the children don't bring muddy boots into the house? Reply quite curtly and sharply: Yes, I Do, and ring off--which seems to me, on the whole, the quickest and most rational method of dealing with Emma.
July 4th.--Return home has much to recommend it, country looks lovely, everything more or less in bloom, except strawberries, which have unaccountably failed, Robert gives me interesting information regarding recent sale of heifer, and suspected case of sclerosis of the liver amongst neighbouring poultry, and Helen Wills claws at me demonstratively under the table as I sit down to dinner. Even slight faux pas on my own part, when I exclaim joyfully that the children will be home in a very short time now, fails to create really serious disturbance of harmonious domestic atmosphere.
Shall certainly not, in view of all this, permit spirits to be daunted by rather large pile of letters almost all concerned with Accounts Rendered, that I find on my writing-table. Could have dispensed, however, with the Milk-book, the Baker's Bill, and the Grocer's Total for the Month, all of them handed to me by Cook with rider to the effect that There was twelve-and-sixpence had to be given to the sweep, and twopence to pay on a letter last Monday week, and she hopes she