Dinner parties were not now given at James' in Park Lane--to every house the moment comes when Master or Mistress is no longer 'up to it'; no more can nine courses be served to twenty mouths above twenty fine white expanses; nor does the household cat any longer wonder why she is suddenly shut up.
So with something like excitement Emily--who at seventy would still have liked a little feast and fashion now and then--ordered dinner for six instead of two, herself wrote a number of foreign words on cards, and arranged the flowers--mimosa from the Riviera, and white Roman hyacinths not from Rome. There would only be, of course, James and herself, Soames, Winifred, Val, and Imogen--but she liked to pretend a little and dally in imagination with the glory of the past. She so dressed herself tha
