I sank into the deepest dejection; life seemed bereft of half its interest. When the evening drew on and the guests began to arrive, I saw my favourite partners carried off, and as I watched the crowd of dancers enjoying themselves my dejection grew deeper. Heaven knows what would have become of me had not my doctor's daughter arrived late, being a very pretty girl, and, I knew, one of the best dancers there, I threw discretion to the four winds, and went up to her. "Don't tell your father," I said. "But will you have the next with me?" She laughed and accepted. I danced every dance after that. At the end of the evening, Arthur Sullivan played a "Sir Roger," with Chappell's man at the piano; I realized none of the dire effects I had expected, and the next day felt better than I had done for months. The capriciousness of one's memory is extraordinary (at least in the light--or darkness--of one's usual forgetfulness). I remember my first dinner-party perfectly; and my kind host and hostess had on this occasion invited a particularly attractive girl for me to take down. Most of the guests were elderly people, and some of them were hungry people also. I had received an invitation from my hostess for almost a fortnight previously, but on that occasion the dinner had been postponed, and their usual hour altered for the convenience of a guest. I, who had not been notified to that effect, arrived in consequence half an hour late, to find the guests still waiting; my inward embarrassment was great when I faced the pairs of hungry and expectant eyes. There was one awfully fat parson who looked as though food came before Church matters. I remember even now his expression of intense relief. I hope he was satisfied. We had a most perfect dinner, and I took down my partner. I felt my hostess's eye upon me; I do not think the lady realized that the fault lay with herself and not with me. My first dinner-party at home was spoiled for me by an accident. I sat next to Mrs. Edmund Yates, who was a beautiful woman, resplendent that evening in a gorgeous gown. Everything had up till now gone smoothly, and I felt that I was getting along nicely when my sleeve caught my glass and swept it over--as Fate would have it--Mrs. Yates' dress. I was terribly upset--so was she, and so was the liqueur. Commissioned portraits were occupying most of my time in those days, and I exhibited (at the Royal Academy) one drawing of my brother Russell, and one of my sister Beatrice. The latter work was much admired by Mr. "Dolly" Storey,[2] who paid me the compliment of offering to buy it from me; but on hearing my parents wished to keep it in the family, he offered me a very good price for any other drawing of similar character. Although I made a considerable number of portraits, I was always caricaturing the various personalities--interesting, extraordinary or amusing--who crossed my path.