"My dear boy," I reassured him, "if she were a complete impostor, does one make a fool of oneself by asking her to dinner once or twice? If so, I am afraid I rank hospitality above my own personal dignity." As a matter of fact, it was all the other way. Mrs. Sawyer developed a mania for entertaining. I went gingerly at first, for one had seen so many _rastaquouères_ treading that road, but no fault could be found with her methods. Either through Connie Maitland or others, she seemed to know _every one_, and you went to the little _réunions_ in South Audley Street with the certainty that, if you did not meet all your friends there, at least every one that you met would be a friend. I enjoyed her parties; indeed, I only hope that she enjoyed them as much as we did, though I confess I sometimes looked at those tragic black eyes and wondered what amusement it could give her. Stay! There was _one_ blot: her hospitality left one no opportunity of making an adequate return. Where there is a marked difference of means, I am the last to suggest that one should proceed on the principle of "a cutlet for a cutlet and a quail for a quail", but it is uncomfortable to feel that everything is coming from one side. My _own_ conscience is clear, for we had done our part; Mrs. Sawyer had in fact dined with us once in Mount Street--just Will and me; I am not in a position to entertain in the old sense of the word--, we had asked her again at least once, and she had never been able to come. It was always: "Oh, won't _you_ come to _me_? And whom shall I ask to meet you? And would you prefer just to dine or shall we go to a play?" All in that charming almost-broken English of hers. It would have been ungracious to refuse... I confess that I never saw and do not see to this day how some of the "Have-Beens" justified their existence. I mean, Will and I dined or lunched or went to a play with her three and four times a week, _simply_ because Major Blanstock told us that she was alone in London and Connie Maitland had asked me to look after her. I can assure you, we _never_ went to South Audley Street without finding a little cluster of "Bunnies" and "Theos" and the rest. I tackled one of them about it... This is between ourselves, but it was Mr. Gorleigh--"Reggie" Gorleigh, I suppose I should call him, to be in the fashion. "You seem a _great_ friend of Mrs. Sawyer," I said. "I am always meeting you here. Tell me; I don't know how long she is staying in London, but one would like her to take away a pleasant memory of such hospitality as one can shew her. Is there anything we can do to make a little return? I hardly like to go _on_ taking with both hands."