"Surely," I said to Will, "our judgement of this person or that is a better criterion than the bald (and perhaps inaccurate) statement that a person was born here and married there. Connie Maitland has asked us to shew some little kindness to our friend; and I am not ashamed to confess that it seems grudging to insist too much on credentials. In a favourite phrase of your own, Will, she is "good enough" for me; and, if any one says: "I met her at Lady Ann's," I should be tempted to answer: "I hope you do not need a better recommendation."
"I don't want to look a fool, that's all," said Will.
"My dear boy," I reassured him, "if she were a complete impostor, does one make a fool of oneself by asking her to dinner once or twice? If so, I am afraid I rank hospitality above my own personal dignity."
As a matter of fact, it was all the other way. Mrs. Sawyer developed a mania for entertaining. I went gingerly at first, for one had seen so many rastaquouères treading that road, but no fault could be found with her methods. Either through Connie Maitland or others, she seemed to know every one, and you went to the little réunions in South Audley Street with the certainty that, if you did not meet all your friends there, at least every one that you met would be a friend. I enjoyed her parties; indeed, I only hope that she enjoyed them as much as we did, though I confess I sometimes looked at those tragic black eyes and wondered what amusement it could give her.
Stay! There was one blot: her hospitality left one no opportunity of making an adequate return. Where there is a marked difference of means, I am the last to suggest that one should proceed on the principle of "a cutlet for a cutlet and a quail for a quail", but it is uncomfortable to feel that everything is coming from one side. My own conscience is clear, for we had done our part; Mrs. Sawyer had in fact dined with us once in Mount Street—just Will and me; I am not in a position to entertain in the old sense of the word—, we had asked her again at least once, and she had never been able to come. It was always: "Oh, won't you come to me? And whom shall I ask to meet you? And would you prefer just to dine or shall we go to a play?" All in that charming almost-broken English of hers. It would have been ungracious to refuse...
I confess that I never saw and do not see to this day how some of the "Have-Beens" justified their existence. I mean, Will and I dined or lunched or went to a play with her three and four times a week, simply because Major Blanstock told us that she was alone in London and Connie Maitland had asked me to look after her. I can assure you, we never went to South Audley Street without finding a little cluster of "Bunnies" and "Theos" and the rest.
I tackled one of them about it... This is between ourselves, but it was Mr. Gorleigh—"Reggie" Gorleigh, I suppose I should call him, to be in the fashion.
"You seem a great friend of Mrs. Sawyer," I said. "I am always meeting you here. Tell me; I don't know how long she is staying in London, but one would like her to take away a pleasant memory of such hospitality as one can shew her. Is there anything we can do to make a little return? I hardly like to go on taking with both hands."
"Well, I felt that from the first," said Mr. Gorleigh. "Geordie Blanstock introduced me, and I came here once or twice... Then I felt ... as you do; and I cried off. The only thing is, she hasn't many friends, and I thought it wasn't quite fair, perhaps, to stay away out of a sort of false delicacy. The poor little woman wants companionship."
"Your feelings do you credit," I said as gravely as I could.