“I made rather a good thing over Edward Throbbing being in a log shanty in Canada which he built himself with the help of one Red Indian. I thought that was fairly good because, you see, I could contrast that with Miles being dressed as a Red Indian tonight, don’t you think so, or don’t you?”
“I say, that’s rather good, may I use it?”
“Well, you can have the shanty, but the Red Indian’s mine.”
“Where is he actually?”
“Heaven knows, Government House at Ottawa, I think.”
“Who’s that awful-looking woman? I’m sure she’s famous in some way. It’s not Mrs. Melrose Ape, is it? I heard she was coming.”
“Who?”
“That one. Making up to Nina.”
“Good lord, no. She’s no one. Mrs. Panrast she’s called now.”
“She seems to know you.”
“Yes, I’ve known her all my life. As a matter of fact, she’s my mother.”
“My dear, how too shaming. D’you mind if I put that in?”
“I’d sooner you didn’t. The family can’t bear her. She’s been divorced twice since then, you know.”
“My dear, of course not, I quite understand.”
Five minutes later he was busy at the telephone dictating his story. “… Orchid stop, new paragraph. One of the most striking women in the room was Mrs. Panrast—P-A-N-R-A-S-T−, no, T for telephone, you know—formerly Countess of Balcairn. She dresses with that severely masculine chic, italics, which American women know so well how to assume, stop. Her son, comma, the present Earl, comma, was with her, stop. Lord Balcairn is one of the few young men about town. …
“… the Hon. Miles Malpractice was dressed as a Red Indian. He is at present living in the house of his brother, Lord Throbbing, at which yesterday’s party was held. His choice of costume was particularly—what shall I say? hullo, yes—was particularly piquant, italics, since the latest reports of Lord Throbbing say that he is living in a log shack in Canada which he built with his own hands, aided by one Red Indian servant, stop. …”
You see, that was the kind of party Archie Schwert’s party was.
Miss Mouse (in a very enterprising frock by Cheruit) sat on a chair with her eyes popping out of her head. She never could get used to so much excitement, never. Tonight she had brought a little friend with her—a Miss Brown—because it was so much more fun if one had someone to talk to. It was too thrilling to see all that dull money her father had amassed, metamorphosed in this way into so much glitter and noise and so many bored young faces. Archie Schwert, as he passed, champagne bottle in hand, paused to say, “How are you, Mary darling? Quite all right?”
“That’s Archie Schwert,” said Miss Mouse to Miss Brown. “Isn’t he too clever?”
“Is he?” said Miss Brown, who would have liked a drink, but didn’t know quite how to set about it. “You are lucky to know such amusing people, Mary darling. I never see anyone.”
“Wasn’t the invitation clever? Johnnie Hoop wrote it.”
“Well, yes, I suppose it was. But you know, was it dreadful of me, I hadn’t heard of any of the names.”1
“My dear, of course you have,” said Miss Mouse, feeling somewhere in her depths—those unplumbed places in Miss Mouse’s soul—a tiny, most unaccustomed flicker of superiority; for she had gone through that invitation word by word in papa’s library some days ago and knew all about it.
She almost wished in this new mood of exaltation that she had come to the party in fancy dress. It was called a Savage party, that is to say that Johnnie Hoop had written on the invitation that they were to come dressed as savages. Numbers of them had done so; Johnnie himself in a mask and black gloves represented the Maharanee of Pukkapore, somewhat to the annoyance of the Maharajah, who happened to drop in. The real aristocracy, the younger members of those two or three great brewing families which rule London, had done nothing about it. They had come on from a dance and stood in a little group by themselves, aloof, amused but not amusing. Pit-a-pat went the heart of Miss Mouse. How she longed to tear down her dazzling frock to her hips and dance like a Bacchante before them all. One day she would surprise them all, thought Miss Mouse.
There was a famous actor making jokes (but it was not so much what he said as the way he said it that made the people laugh who did laugh). “I’ve come to the party as a wild widower,” he said. They were that kind of joke—but, of course, he made a droll face when he said it.
Miss Runcible had changed into Hawaiian costume and was the life and soul of the evening.
She had heard someone say something about an Independent Labour Party, and was furious that she had not been asked.
There were two men with a lot of explosive powder taking photographs in another room. Their flashes and bangs had rather a disquieting effect on the party, causing a feeling of tension, because everyone looked negligent and said what a bore the papers were, and how too like Archie to let the photographers come, but most of them as a matter of fact wanted dreadfully to be photographed and the others were frozen with unaffected terror that they might be taken unawares and then their mamas would know where they had been when they said they were at the Bicesters’ dance, and then there would be a row again, which was so exhausting, if nothing else.
There were Adam and Nina getting rather sentimental.
“D’you know,” she said, pulling out a lump, “I’d quite made up my mind that your hair was dark?” Archie Schwert, pausing with a
