Mitchell thought this more fun than arranging guests; but there was an element of gambling about it that made wary people nervous.

Everyone present would have cheated had it been possible.

But it was not.
Mrs Mitchell was a tiny brown-eyed creature, who looked absurdly young; she was kind, sprightly, and rather like a grouse.

Mitchell was a jovial-looking man, with a high forehead, almost too much ease of manner, and a twinkling eye.
The chief guests tonight consisted of Lord Rye, a middle-aged suffraget, who was known for his habit of barking before he spoke and for his wonderful ear for music--he could play all Richard, Oscar and Johann Strauss's compositions by ear on the piano, and never mixed them up; Aylmer Ross, the handsome barrister; Myra Mooney, who had been on the stage; and an intelligent foreigner from the embassy, with a decoration, a goat-like beard, and an Armenian accent.

Mrs Mitchell said he was the minister from some place with a name like Ruritania.
She had a vague memory.