She had found out that the host of the evening at the ballet had been Rupert Denison, and that Madeline Irwin, Bertha and Nigel were the guests. For more than a week Mary had entirely given up the quarrelsome and nagging mood, so that Nigel believed she no longer had this absurd fancy about Bertha. As a matter of fact, for the first time, she had really been dissembling, had spent a good deal of time and money in finding out how both Bertha and Nigel spent their time. What little she had found out had given her an entirely false impression, and that had resulted in a very desperate determination. She meant to carry it out this morning. But she wanted to talk a little more to Nigel first.
“Nigel dear, you know what you said the other evening about giving parties?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve been thinking, perhaps, dear, you’re right. I find I’ve dropped nearly all your old friends. I think we’d better give one big party—a reception, I think. Our drawing-room has never been seen yet.”
Nigel looked up, really pleased to see her taking a more normal sort of interest in her existence.
“By Jove! I am glad. That’s capital! Yes, of course. To start with we’ll give an At Home, as they call ’em.”
“Do you think there ought to be any sort of entertainment, Nigel?”
“Well, just as you like. You said you didn’t want music. … How would it be to have a band to play the whole evening?”
“Yes, that would do very well. Oh, and, Nigel! I find I’ve been so careless and forgotten all the addresses and lost the cards of people that we used to know. I shall want someone to help me.”
“Yes, I suppose Mademoiselle won’t do.”