One of these resolved itself into an invitation from the Arcadia Club, of which Mr. Ticke was a member in impressive arrears, to their monthly soiree in the Landscapists’ rooms in Bond Street.  The Arcadia Club had the most liberal scope of any in London, he told Elfrida, and included the most interesting people.  Painters belonged to it, and sculptors, actors, novelists, musicians, journalists, perhaps above all, journalists.  A great many ladies were members, Elfrida would see, and they were always glad to welcome a new personality.  The club recognized how the world had run to types, and how scarce and valuable personalities were in consequence.  It was not a particularly conventional club, but he would arrange that, if Elfrida would accept his escort.  Mrs. Tommy Morrow should meet her in the dressing-room, as a concession to the prejudices of society.

“Mrs. Tommy is a brilliant woman in her way,” Mr. Ticke added; “she edits the Boudoir—­I might say she created the Boudoir.  They call her the Queen of Arcadia.  She has a great deal of manner.”

“What does Mr. Tommy Morrow do?” Elfrida asked.  But Golightly could not inform her as to Mr. Tommy Morrow’s occupation.

The rooms were half full when they arrived, and as the man in livery announced them, “Mrs. Morrow, Miss Bell, and Mr. Golightly Ticke,” it seemed to Elfrida that everybody turned simultaneously to look.  There was nobody to receive them; the man in livery published them, as it were, to the company, which she felt to be a more effective mode of entering society, when it was the society of the arts.  She could not possibly help being aware that a great many people were looking in her direction over Mrs. Tommy Morrow’s shoulder.  Presently it became obvious that Mrs. Tommy Morrow was also aware of it.  The shoulder was a very feminine shoulder, with long lines curving forward into the sulphur-colored gown that met them not too prematurely.  Mrs. Tommy Morrow insisted upon her shoulder, and upon her neck, which was short behind but long in front in effect, and curved up to a chin which was somewhat too persistently thrust forward.  Mrs. Tommy had a pretty face with an imperious expression.  “Just the face,” as Golightly murmured to Elfrida, “to run the Boudoir.”  She seemed to know everybody, bowed right and left with varying degrees of cordiality, and said sharply, “No shop to-night!” to a thin young woman in a high black silk, who came up to her exclaiming, “Oh, Mrs. Morrow, that function at Sandringham has been postponed.”  Presently Mrs. Morrow’s royal progress was interrupted by a gentleman who wished to present Signer Georgiadi, “the star of the evening,” Golightly said hurriedly to Elfrida.  Mrs. Morrow was very gracious, but the little fat Italian with the long hair and the drooping eyelids was atrociously embarrassed to respond to her compliments in English.  He struggled so violently that Mrs. Morrow began to smile with a compassionate patronage which turned him a distressing terra-cotta.  Elfrida looked on for a few minutes, and then, as one of the group, she said quietly in French, “And Italian opera in England, how do you find it, Signor?”