SIDDALL felt that the evening had gone very well. She had the special point of view of a veteran hostess, not unlike a commander-in-chief holding a review. The right names, the household guards, filed by, saluted, deployed, and presently moved off in good order. There had been no hitch. Mrs. Siddall thought that Mrs. Martin was ridiculous showing her thin legs in a Patou model at her age, and her hair brittle with dye. And Mrs. Jelliffe Pearson had gone to pieces noticeably, but what could one expect —at forty-five she had married a man of thirty, and the five years since had been disastrous. She was strained and haggard, keeping her husband practically on leash. Mrs. Siddall made these mental observations impartially and impersonally, without prejudice to her guests as such. Mrs. Martin and Mrs. Pearson were people one always invited. There was, of course, a human aspect to the routine, threads of genuine friendship and intimate association woven into it. George Martin, Mrs. Martin's husband, who died ten years ago had been best man at Mrs.
