The very atmosphere of the Terrace is Parliamentarian, though, of course, not in a literal sense, and vague, unmeaning visions of woolsack and wig seem to mingle with the visible realities. On the one side the Thames, trembling with traffic; on the other the silent altitude of stone, that seems to grow hospitable and confidential as you sit longer at its feet. And between these, the tea-table, with its merry group, laughing at each other’s jests, and carelessly throwing about those precious invitations which keep one going on.
My right-hand neighbor proved to be a large-minded editor of delightful personality.
We talked of books, and he said quite casually: “Yes, I fancy Henry James’s works. And, moreover, he’s a charming man, personally. Would you care to go motoring down to Rye to-morrow, and spend the day at his place?”
While almost simultaneously on my other side a lady was saying, “Yes, indeed, I’ll be glad to send you a card to the Annual Dinner of the Women Authors of Great Britain.”
Truly, hospitality is the keynote of the Leaders of London Society. An apparent lack of warmth may sometimes be noticeable in their manner, but they deal out delightful invitations with a free and willing hand, the acceptance of which keeps one forever going on.
And, after all, one is too prone to generalize.
Hostesses are human beings, and, therefore, there are no two alike.
One may classify,—and the types fall easily into classes,—but one may not make sweeping assertions. And, too, in society, which the world over is a sham and purveyor of shams, are kind hearts always more than coronets?
And when one is gayly, perhaps flippantly, going on, one wants to see all sorts, and I went from my Terrace Tea to a private view of some paintings.
Then, after suitable robing, to a dinner; then to the opera, where the delicious incongruity of Madame Butterfly set to Italian grand opera music, was heightened by the dear baby who sat flat on the stage and waved the American flag into the very faces of the boxes full of English royalty.