The concert alone caused Dora some anxiety. She almost regretted having had music printed on her cards. Her artistic temperament had often caused her to pity from the bottom of her heart those pianists and singers, whom nobody listens to at parties, and whose first notes invariably give the signal for general conversation. She thought this unmannerly, even offensive, not only to the hosts, but to the artistes. The shopkeeper demands only the price of the goods that he sells you, and it is a matter of indifference to him whether you have your hat in your hand or on your head in his shop. The artiste is more difficult to please. He asks for the appreciation of those who pay him, and more than one celebrated star has consented to sing in drawing-rooms for hundreds of pounds, but only on the formal condition that silence would be enforced. It must be said that at these gatherings many people, who are too busy to pay one another frequent calls, are pleased to have the opportunity of meeting, the men to talk of politics and business, the women of dress, theatres, gossip, or scandals. They can so well dispense with music that many Englishwomen have the words no music printed on their invitation cards. I know one who, in order to persuade me to accept her invitation, put a postscript thus: "I shall have a Hungarian orchestra, but you won't hear it."
Dora was reassured, however, as the impresario, who was to arrange the music, knew his public. He had guaranteed her "complete satisfaction."
She thought no more about it, and awaited the day with all the serenity of a society stager who had done nothing else all her life.
IX
THE CONFESSION
Like the great Condé, on the eve of the battle of Rocroy, Dora slept peacefully and profoundly on the eve of the day that was to see her play the rôle of hostess for the first time in her new house in Belgravia.
She was careful not to tire herself during the day, in order to feel fresh and alert at half-past nine, the hour at which the guests would begin to arrive.
For a mistress of a house, for a novice especially, a reception of this kind is a severe trial. She stands four mortal hours at the entrance of the drawing-room, all the while on the qui-vive. She would like to possess a hundred pairs of eyes instead of one, to assure herself that everything is going as smoothly as she could wish, for the least little contretemps will spoil the party. Out of four hundred people who accept an invitation, two hundred come to criticise—some the music, others the supper, others the wines, others the dresses. If there is the slightest hitch in the proceedings, there are whispered comments on it. If the music is bad, people drown it with their voices; if the supper is of doubtful quality, they go early; if the servants do not number the hats carefully, the men, on leaving, choose the best that come to their notice; if the hostess is embarrassed, they smile. If the women meet people whom they have ceased to know, they look bored. The most thankless task in the world is giving a large "At home." I know many women who, after giving such parties, have to go to bed for a couple of days.
Dora dined lightly at seven o'clock, and, after giving her last instructions, went to dress. At nine o'clock she was ready. Her white dress of exquisite material, trimmed with old lace and silver embroidery, suited her to perfection, and set off every line of her supple figure. She seemed to be moulded in it. She wore a rivière of diamonds and emeralds, and three magnificent diamond stars were fastened on her bodice. Philip had given her these diamonds, to console her for the portrait that he had not had the courage to finish. She would have infinitely preferred the portrait, but she accepted the jewels willingly, and, thanking her husband prettily, she said to herself, "When the shell bursts, its pieces will be useful. I shall at any rate have a couple of thousand pounds with which to face the situation." She wore no ornament in her hair, which seemed to be proud of being entrusted alone with the task of showing off her beautiful pure Madonna-like face. Never had a lovelier head, framed in luxuriant tresses, been placed more proudly on classical shoulders. Her beauty was dazzling.