y to make my acquaintance. Half through the evening, and
by accident, I discovered my mistake, but judged it too late to say
anything then. I met a couple of people I knew, had a little supper with
them, and came away. The next afternoon I met my right hostess--the lady
who should have been my hostess. She thanked me effusively for having
sacrificed the previous evening to her and her friends; she said she
knew how seldom I went out: that made her feel my kindness all the more.
She told me that the Brazilian Minister's wife had told her that I was
the cleverest man she had ever met. I often think I should like to meet
that man, whoever he may be, and thank him.

"But perhaps the butler does pronounce my name rightly, and perhaps
my hostess actually does recognize me. She smiles, and says she was so
afraid I was not coming. She implies that all the other guests are
but as a feather in her scales of joy compared with myself. I smile in
return, wondering to myself how I look when I do smile. I have never
had the courage to face my own smile in the looking-glass. I notice the
Society smile of other men, and it is not reassuring. I murmur something
about my not having been likely to forget this evening; in my turn,
seeking to imply that I have been looking forward to it for weeks. A few
men shine at this sort of thing, but they are a small percentage, and
without conceit I regard myself as no bigger a fool than the average
male. Not knowing what else to say, I tell her also that it is a warm
evening. She smiles archly as though there were some hidden witticism in
the remark, and I drift away, feeling ashamed of myself. To talk as an
idiot when you ARE an idiot brings no discomfort; to behave as an idiot
when you have sufficient sense to know it, is painful. I hide myself in
the crowd, and perhaps I'll meet a woman I was introduced to three weeks
ago at a picture gallery. We don't know each other's names, but, both
of us feeling lonesome, we converse, as it is called. If she be the
ordinary type of woman, she asks me if I am going on to the Johnsons'.
I tell her no. We stand silent for a moment, both thinking what next to
say. She asks me if I was at the Thompsons' the day before yesterday. I
again tell her no. I begin to feel dissatisfied with myself that I was
not at the Thompsons'. Trying to get even with her, I ask her if she is
going to the Browns' next Monday. (There are no Browns, she will have to
say, No.) She is not,