Tenterhooks | Page 9

was a little frightening. In reality it
was merely so that the partners for the meal should be chosen by
chance. Mitchell thought this more fun than arranging guests; but there
was an element of gambling about it that made wary people nervous.

Everyone present would have cheated had it been possible. But it was
not.
Mrs Mitchell was a tiny brown-eyed creature, who looked absurdly
young; she was kind, sprightly, and rather like a grouse. Mitchell was a
jovial-looking man, with a high forehead, almost too much ease of
manner, and a twinkling eye.
The chief guests tonight consisted of Lord Rye, a middle-aged suffraget,
who was known for his habit of barking before he spoke and for his
wonderful ear for music--he could play all Richard, Oscar and Johann
Strauss's compositions by ear on the piano, and never mixed them up;
Aylmer Ross, the handsome barrister; Myra Mooney, who had been on
the stage; and an intelligent foreigner from the embassy, with a
decoration, a goat-like beard, and an Armenian accent. Mrs Mitchell
said he was the minister from some place with a name like Ruritania.
She had a vague memory. There was also a Mr Cricker, a very young
man of whom it was said that he could dance like Nijinsky, but never
would; and the rest were chiefly Foreign Office clerks (like Mitchell
and Bruce), more barristers and their wives, a soldier or two, some
undergraduates, a lady photographer, a few pretty girls, and vague
people. There were to be forty guests for dinner and a few more in the
evening.
Almost immediately on her arrival Edith noticed a tall, clean-shaven
man, with smooth fair hair, observant blue eyes, and a rather humorous
expression, and she instantly decided that she would try to will him to
take her to dinner. (Rather a superfluous effort of magnetism, since it
must have been settled already by fate and the ribbons.) It was obvious
from one quick glance that he shared the wish. To their absurdly great
mutual disappointment (a lot of ground was covered very quickly at the
Mitchells), their ribbons didn't match, and she was taken to dinner by
Captain Willis, who looked dull. Fortune, however, favoured her. On
her other side she found the man who looked amusing. He was
introduced to her across the table by Mrs Mitchell, with empressement,
as Mr Aylmer Ross.
Edith felt happy tonight; her spirits were raised by what she felt to be

an atmosphere tiède, as the French say; full of indulgence, sympathetic,
relaxing, in which either cleverness or stupidity could float equally at
its ease. The puerility of the silly little arrangements to amuse removed
all sense of ceremony. The note is always struck by the hostess, and she
was everything that was amiable, without effort or affectation.
No-one was ever afraid of her.
Bruce's neighbour at dinner was the delicate, battered-looking actress,
in a Royal fringe and a tight bodice with short sleeves, who had once
been a celebrity, though no-one remembered for what. Miss Myra
Mooney, formerly a beauty, had known her days of success. She had
been the supreme performer of ladylike parts. She had been known as
the very quintessence of refinement. It was assumed when she first
came out that a duke would go to the devil for her in her youth, and that
in her late maturity she would tour the provinces with The Three
Musketeers. Neither of these prophecies had, however, been fulfilled.
She still occasionally took small middle-aged titled parts in repertoire
matinees. She was unable to help referring constantly to the hit she
made in Peril at Manchester in 1887; nor could she ever resist speaking
of the young man who sent her red carnations every day of his blighted
existence for fifteen years; a pure romance, indeed, for, as she owned,
he never even wished to be introduced to her. She still called him poor
boy, oblivious of the fact that he was now sixty-eight, and, according to
the illustrated papers, spent his entire time in giving away a numberless
succession of daughters in brilliant marriage at St George's, Hanover
Square.
In this way Miss Mooney lived a good deal in the past, but she was not
unaware of the present, and was always particularly nice to people
generally regarded as bores. So she was never without plenty of
invitations. Mitchell had had formerly a slight tendre for her, and in his
good nature pretended to think she had not altered a bit. She was still
refined comme cela ne se fait plus; it was practically no longer possible
to find such a perfect lady, even on the stage. As she also had all the
easy good nature of the artist, and made herself extremely agreeable,
Bruce was delighted with