The door was opened to me by an amazed-looking maid, who seemed so uncertain what to do with me that I almost grew embarrassed myself.
Finally, she asked me to follow her up-stairs, and then ushered me into a room where my hostess, in the hands of her maid, was in the earliest stages of her toilette.
“You dear thing,” she said, “how sweet of you to come. Yes, Louise, that aigrette is right. Here is the key of my jewel case.”
“I fear I have mistaken the hour,” I said; “the telephone was a bit difficult,—but I understood half past seven.”
“Yes,” agreed Mrs. Marchbanks, studying the back of her head in a hand-mirror, “but in London seven-thirty means eight, you know.”
This was definite information, and I promptly stored it away for future use. Also, it was reliable information, for it proved true, and at eight the guests began to arrive.
Dinner was served at quarter to nine, and all was well.
Incidentally I had learned my lesson.
The half-hour in the drawing-room before dinner was an interesting “first impression” of that indescribable combination of warmth and frost known as a London Hostess.
Further experience taught me that Mrs. Marchbanks was a typical one.