The Kingdom of the Blind

Lady Anselman stood in the centre of the lounge at the Ritz Hotel and with a delicately-poised forefinger counted her guests. There was the great French actress who had every charm but youth, chatting vivaciously with a tall, pale-faced man whose French seemed to be as perfect as his attitude was correct. The popular wife of a great actor was discussing her husband’s latest play with a Cabinet Minister who had the air of a school-boy present at an illicit feast. A very beautiful young woman, tall and fair, with grey-blue eyes and a wealth of golden, almost yellow hair, was talking to a famous musician. A little further in the background, a young man in the uniform of a naval lieutenant was exchanging what seemed to be rather impressive chaff with a petite but exceedingly good-looking girl. Lady Anselman counted them twice, glanced at the clock and frowned.
“I can’t remember whom we are waiting for!” she exclaimed a little helplessly to the remaining guest, a somewhat tired-looking publisher who stood by her side. “I am one short. I dare say it will come to me in a minute. You know every one, I suppose, Mr. Daniell?”
The publisher shook his head.
“I have met Lord Romsey and also Madame Selarne,” he observed. “For the rest, I was just thinking what a stranger I felt.”
“The man who talks French so well,” Lady Anselman told him, dropping her voice a little, “is Surgeon-Major Thomson. He is inspector of hospitals at the front, or something of the sort. The tall, fair girl—isn’t she pretty!—is Geraldine Conyers, daughter of Admiral Sir Seymour Conyers. That’s her brother, the sailor over there, talking to Olive Moreton; their engagement was announced last week. Lady Patrick of course you know, and Signor Scobel, and Adelaide Cunningham—you do know her, don’t you, Mr. Daniell? She is my dearest friend. How many do you make that?”
The publisher counted them carefully.
“Eleven including ourselves,” he announced.
“And we should be twelve,” Lady Anselman sighed. “Of course!” she added, her face suddenly brightening. “What an idiot I am! It’s Ronnie we are waiting for. One can’t be cross with him, poor fellow. He can only just get about.”