The dinner party

But there are other, more genuine problems. They are the problems of behaviour.

Let me tell you one such a problem, which beset³ my uncle Octavian a full thirty years ago.

A full thirty years ago, I myself was fifteen. That is not really important, though it was important to me at the time, on the threshold of the dazzling adult world. More important to this story, my uncle Octavian, was then (in 1925) a rich man in the lavish pride of manhood⁴,

He was (as any suitable contemporary will confirm) a charming and accomplished host whose villa on the Cote d'Azur⁵ was an accepted rendez­vous of the great; and he was (as I will confirm) a hospitable, contented, and most amiable man — until January 3, 1925.

There was nothing special about that day, in the life of my uncle Octavian, except that it was his fifty-fifth birthday. As usual on such a day, he was giving a dinner party, a party for twelve people. All of them were old friends; two of them, indeed were what were then called, unambiguously, " old flames.⁶" (My uncle, aged fifty-five, would scarcely have found it pos­sible to give a birthday dinner party not attended by at least two such guests. He had long been addicted to what was then called, with equal unambiguity, a " full life.⁷"

I, myself, aged fifteen, was deeply priviledged. I was staying with my uncle at his exquisite villa near Cap d'Antibes⁸; and as a special concession on this happy day, I was allowed to come down to dinner. It was exciting to me to be admitted to such company, which included besides the two " old flames, " and their respective husbands, a newspaper proprietor of excep­tional intelligence and his fabulous American wife; a recent prime-minister of France and a monumental elder statesman of post-war Germany, and a Habsburg* prince and princess.

At that age, on holiday from school, you will guess that I was dazzled. Even today, thirty years later, one may fairly admit that the company was distinguished. But I should also stress, to give point to the story, that they were all old and intimate friends of my uncle Octavian.

Towards the end of a wonderful dinner when dessert had been brought in and the servants had left, my uncle leant forward to admire a magnificent solitaire¹⁰ diamond ring on the princess's hand. She was a handsome woman, of regal bearing¹¹; I remember the candlelight flashing on, and within, the canary-yellow stone as she turned her hand gracefully towards my uncle.

Across the table, the newspaper proprietor leant across and said: " May I also have a look, Therese? " She smiled and nodded. Then she took off the