Philip decided to give a house-warming party in the month of November, and to ask to a large soirÉe musicale all the society notabilities, in fact all London and his wife. Cards of invitation were sent to ambassadors, cabinet ministers, aristocracy, and City princes. He invited a few literary friends, but not many artists, being afraid of passing for a man who was trying to dazzle his less fortunate brothers in art by his wealth. Perhaps he also rather feared meeting them—the studio world has not a very developed bump of admiration for painters who make a rapid fortune and settle in Belgravia. Those who believed that he still painted had nicknamed him le Grantham des Salons, a not very brilliant pun upon his name which sounded rather like the two French words grand homme. Between four and five hundred people accepted invitations. The artists for the most part refused, "having a previous engagement which prevented them from accepting Mrs. Philip Grantham's kind invitation." Poor Dora seemed to see the artistic world slipping away from her, since Art itself had deserted the house. Lorimer had accepted. Thank Heaven, she would at least have one real friend at her reception. She set about doing her best to ensure the success of her party. She had a long list of the people who were coming, all well-known names. She gave carte blanche to the best impresario of London, who was entrusted with the arrangement of the musical programme. She ordered her supper from Benoist, and flowers and palms in profusion for the decoration of the house, and went to the best dressmaker in London for a gown which, when it came home, Philip pronounced simply beyond competition. Dora was a born grande dame. True, she preferred the simple intellectual life that she had led hitherto, but she was fitted to shine in the gay world. If she had been the wife of the President of the French Republic, all the Faubourg St. Germain would willingly have rendered her homage at the ElysÉe, and would probably have said, on returning home, "A RÉpublicaine can be as beautiful, witty, and distinguished-looking as the most high-born Marquise, were she as noble as Charlemagne or Louis XIV."

Dora felt sure of herself, certain of doing honour to Philip, and, notwithstanding the profound sadness that reigned in her heart, she was still woman enough to rejoice in advance over the success which she anticipated. She accordingly made all her preparations to that end, and took pains to put her beauty and intelligence at her husband's service. Philip, for that matter, did things in lordly style; he had given Dora an unlimited credit, carte blanche, that is to say a blank cheque. Philip wished to have a great social success.

Without saying anything to his wife, he had sent invitations to all the principal papers, thinking that if the editors did not come they would not fail to send reporters who would write accounts of the party, the publication of which would make them known, he and Dora, in the society in which he had taken a firm resolution to shine.

The concert alone caused Dora some anxiety. She almost regretted having had music printed on her cards. Her artistic temperament had often caused her to pity from the bottom of her heart those pianists and singers, whom nobody listens to at parties, and whose first notes invariably give the signal for general conversation. She thought this unmannerly, even offensive, not only to the hosts, but to the artistes. The shopkeeper demands only the price of the goods that he sells you, and it is a matter of indifference to him whether you have your hat in your hand or on your head in his shop. The artiste is more difficult to please. He asks for the appreciation of those who pay him, and more than one celebrated star has consented to sing in drawing-rooms for hundreds of pounds, but only on the formal condition that silence would be enforced. It must be said that at these gatherings many people, who are too busy to pay one another frequent calls, are pleased to have the opportunity of meeting, the men to talk of politics and business, the women of dress, theatres, gossip, or scandals. They can so well dispense with music that many Englishwomen have the words no music printed on their invitation cards. I know one who, in order to persuade me to accept her invitation, put a postscript thus: "I shall have a Hungarian orchestra, but you won't hear it."

Dora was reassured, however, as the impresario, who was to arrange the music, knew his public. He had guaranteed her "complete satisfaction."

She thought no more about it, and awaited the day with all the serenity of a society stager who had done nothing else all her life.