‘The woman on my left was Lady Thisbe Crowborough. I don’t know who was the woman on my right. She was the first to turn and see me. I thought it best to say something about my shirtfront at once. I said it to her sideways, without showing my left cheek. Her handsome eyes rested on the splashes. She said, after a moment’s thought, that they looked “rather gay.” She said she thought the eternal black and white of men’s evening clothes was “so very dreary.” She did her best.... Lady Thisbe Crowborough did her best, too, I suppose; but breeding isn’t proof against all possible shocks: she visibly started at sight of me and my Z. I explained that I had cut myself shaving. I said, with an attempt at lightness, that shy men ought always to cut themselves shaving: it made such a good conversational opening. “But surely,” she said after a pause, “you don’t cut yourself on purpose?” She was an abysmal fool. I didn’t think so at the time. She was Lady Thisbe Crowborough. This fact hallowed her. That we didn’t get on at all well was a misfortune for which I blamed only myself and my repulsive appearance and--the unforgettable horror that distracted me. Nor did I blame Lady Thisbe for turning rather soon to the man on her other side. ‘The woman on my right was talking to the man on HER other side; so that I was left a prey to secret memory and dread. I wasn’t wondering, wasn’t attempting to explain; I was merely remembering--and dreading. And--how odd one is!--on the top-layer of my consciousness I hated to be seen talking to no one. Mr. Maltby at Keeb. I caught the Duchess’ eye once or twice, and she nodded encouragingly, as who should say “You do look rather awful, and you do seem rather out of it, but I don’t for a moment regret having asked you to come.” Presently I had another chance of talking. I heard myself talk. My feverish anxiety to please rather touched ME. But I noticed that the eyes of my listener wandered. And yet I was sorry when the ladies went away. I had a sense of greater exposure. Men who hadn’t seen me saw me now. The Duke, as he came round to the Duchess’ end of the table, must have wondered who I was. But he shyly offered me his hand as he passed, and said it was so good of me to come. I had thought of slipping away to put on another shirt and waistcoat, but had decided that this would make me the more ridiculous. I sat drinking port--poison to me after champagne, but a lulling poison--and listened to noblemen with unstained shirtfronts talking about the Australian cricket match....