he world something is still expected of
him. In France it takes the form of a handsome bag of bon-bons on New
Year's Day, if he has accepted hospitality during the past year. While
here he need do absolutely nothing (unless he wishes to), the occasional
leaving of a card having been suppressed of late by our _jeunesse doree_,
five minutes of their society in an opera box being estimated (by them)
as ample return for a dinner or a week in a country house.

The truth of it is, there are so few men who "go out" (it being
practically impossible for any one working at a serious profession to sit
up night after night, even if he desired), and at the same time so many
women insist on entertaining to amuse themselves or better their
position, that the men who go about get spoiled and almost come to
consider the obligation conferred, when they dine out. There is no more
amusing sight than poor paterfamilias sitting in the club between six and
seven P.M. pretending to read the evening paper, but really with his eve
on the door; he has been sent down by his wife to "get a man," as she is
one short for her dinner this evening. He must be one who will fit in
well with the other guests; hence papa's anxious look, and the reason the
editorial gets so little of his attention! Watch him as young
"professional" lounges in. There is just his man--if he only happens to
be disengaged! You will see "Pater" cross the room and shake hands,
then, after a few minutes' whispered conversation, he will walk down to
his coupe with such a relieved look on his face. Young "professional,"
who is in faultless evening dress, will ring for a cocktail and take up
the discarded evening paper to pass the time till eight twenty-five.

Eight twenty-five, advisedly, for he will be the last to arrive, knowing,
clever dog, how much _eclat_ it gives one to have a room full of people
asking each other, "Whom are we waiting for?" when the door opens, and he
is announced. He will stay a moment after the other guests have gone and
receive the most cordial pressures of the hand from a grateful hostess
(if not spoken words of thanks) in return for eating an exquisitely
cooked dinner, seated between two agreeable women, drinking
irreproachable wine, smoking a cigar, and washing the whole down with a
glass of 1830 brandy, or some priceless historic madeira.

There is probably a moral to be extracted from all this. But frankly my
ethics are so mixed that I fail