I did likewise. I realized that I must be biographical to a reasonable extent--just enough to satisfy curiosity, without giving the impression that I was sitting down to tell my life-story the way the heroine does in the first act of a play. “He arrived only last Saturday,” I said, “and you may imagine how pleased I was to be able to bring him to-night, in answer to your kind invitation.” “Only too glad he could come,” murmured Mrs. Kennedy, oblivious of the terrified side-glance that her husband cast in her direction. “Very fortunate that you had this one evening disengaged.” “I’m taking him about everywhere,” I continued, with girlish loquacity. “People had begun to think that Major Thatcher was a myth, and I’m showing them that there’s a good deal of him and he’s very much alive. For four years, you know, I’ve been living here, first in those miserable lodgings in Half Moon Street, and after that in my flat--you know it--on Gower Street. A nice little place enough, but much nicer now, with Harry in it.” “Of course,” said Mrs. Kennedy, as sympathetically as was compatible with her eagerness to pounce upon such crumbs of information as I let drop. “How dull these four years have been for you!” “Dull!” I echoed, “dull is not the word!” And I gave my eyes an expressive, acrobatic roll toward the ceiling. “She couldn’t have stood it out there,” said Tom, in an unexpected bass growl. “Too hot! Ethel can’t stand the heat--never could.” Then he lapsed into silence, staring at the fire under Mr. Kennedy’s fascinated gaze. Dinner was just then announced, and I heard him saying as he walked in behind us: “Is India very hot, Mrs. Kennedy? Once in Delhi I sat for four days in a cold bath, and read the Waverley novels.” To which Mrs. Kennedy answered, brightly: “I should think that would have put you to sleep, and you might have been drowned.” That was one of the most remarkable dinners I ever sat through. Of the two couples, the Kennedys were the least at ease. They were more afraid of being found out than we were. The cold sweat would break out on Mr. Kennedy’s brow when the conversation edged up toward the subject of previous meetings, and Mrs. Kennedy would begin to talk feverishly about other things. She was the kind of woman who hates to be unequal to any social emergency; and I am bound to confess, considering how unprepared she was, she held her own this time with tact and spirit. She had the copious flow of small talk so many Americans seem to have at command, and it rippled fluently and untiringly on from the soup to the savory. I added to the impression I had already made by alluding to various titled friends of mine, letting their names drop carelessly from my lips as the pearls and diamonds fell from the mouth of the virtuous princess.