The party was also intended to provide an opportunity of showing Noel that he was not the only pebble on Mrs Lace’s beach; superfluous gesture, as poor Noel was already too firmly convinced that to see was to desire her. To this end the artistic Mr Leader and his colleagues were invited over from Rackenbridge, that local Athens which had, up to now, provided Anne-Marie with all her cultured conquests.
The great day dawned with thunder in the air, and soon after breakfast there was thunder in the Laces’ drawing-room as well. Major Lace, filling up his pipe before setting out to examine a sick cow, remarked casually:
‘Isn’t it your binge today, Bella?’
Anne-Marie winced at this. She objected to the use of her real name, despised the word ‘binge’, and considered that Major Lace ought to have known as well as she did that it was the great day.
‘I have asked a few people round at cocktail-time,’ she said, in her society voice. ‘Perhaps that’s what you’re thinking of?’
‘Splendid! I thought it was today all right. I ran into old George Wilkins yesterday at the Show, and told him to be sure and come along. Lucky thing I happened to remember about it. Why, he’ll simply be the life and soul of a party like that.’
Anne-Marie froze on hearing this news. Then she flew into a passion. She refused to have Mr Wilkins at her party, he was quite unsuitable, an odious man, stupid and loutish. She hated him. She hated his red face, and Hubert knew that perfectly well, and Hubert had only asked him out of spite, in order to spoil everything for her. Everything. She burst into tears.
Major Lace listened to these recriminations with an expression of bewilderment which was by degrees succeeded by one of intense disgust on his kind round face.
‘You’re such a little snob, my dear,’ he said, as soon as he was able to get a word in, ‘I know what you’re thinking, that those new grand friends of yours won’t like poor old George Wilkins – eh? Well, as it happens you’re wrong there, because I’m prepared to bet a large sum that they will. He’s the most amusing fellow I’ve ever come across, and what’s more, everybody likes old Wilkins – except you.’
‘I’m not a snob,’ cried Mrs Lace, angrily. ‘If I were a snob should I be friends with penniless artists like Leslie Leader? On the contrary, many people would think I was too much the other way – not particular enough. It is not snobbish to demand certain qualities in one’s acquaintances – and personally I prefer to mix with people of culture. I dislike vulgarity of mind. However, all this is beside the point. I shall be delighted for you to invite Mr Wilkins any other time. At this particular party it will be quite impossible to have him.’
‘Why?’
‘For the reasons I have given you. He is an unsuitable person, so unsoigné too. And for another thing, Leslie Leader would leave the house if he came. He absolutely hates him.’
‘Dear, dear, does he now? Mr Leader goes up in my estimation. I never thought that white slug had the guts to hate anybody. Still I think I should risk it, rather awkward to put Leader off at the last minute like this.’
‘Naturally there will be no question of doing that. I am going to ring up Mr Wilkins now this minute and tell him you have made a mistake.’
‘Anne-Marie, you can do that if you like, but I warn you that I shan’t turn up at your blasted party unless Wilkins does,’ said Major Lace, setting his jaw.
‘Nonsense, Hubert, of course you’ll have to come. It would look very odd if you didn’t, and besides, who’s to mix the cocktails?’
‘I don’t give a damn who mixes the cocktails. Leader can mix them.’
‘You know he can’t; he’s teetotal.’
‘He would be. Anyway if I’m to come Wilkins must come, you can take it or leave it old girl.’ So saying, Major Lace stumped off to his cow-byres.
Mrs Lace spent much of the morning in tears of rage. During luncheon she uttered no word, a fact which Major Lace apparently never noticed, as he went on as usual, chatting about John’s disease, and the tubercular content of a pint of milk. He did not mention Mr Wilkins or the party, and the moment he had swallowed his food he went off again. Arrangements for the party occupied Anne-Marie’s afternoon, but gave her little satisfaction. Even the arrival of Mr Leader, who came, as he had promised that he would, to decorate her drawing-room with whitewashed brambles and cellophane, failed to improve her temper.
While she was changing her dress, however, her spirits began to rise, and by the time that the first guests had appeared she became positively gay once more. She enjoyed entertaining more than anything else on earth, and was, considering her inexperience, a good enough hostess, unflagging in her zeal to please.
Neighbour after neighbour now arrived, husbands, wives, daughters, and an occasional son home on leave or down from Oxford. They were all jolly friendly, dull people, and were suitably startled by Anne-Marie’s silver lamé cocktail-trousers and heavy make-up. The young men from Rackenbridge struck, she considered, exactly the right note of Bohemian négligé in their shrimp trousers and ‘Aertex’ shirts open at the neck. The scene, in fact,
