A lively chatter had already begun; for each woman had been
offered on her arrival a basket from which she had to choose a brightly
coloured ribbon. These ribbons matched the rosettes presented in an
equally haphazard way to every man. As Vincy observed, it gave one the
rather ghastly impression that there was going to be a cotillion at
once, on sight, before dinner; which 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.
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