The whole thing is a mystery governed by strange laws and curious considerations of which I am kept in utter ignorance; in fact, I rarely know where I am going to dine until I arrive at the house.  On several occasions I have come away without having any very clear idea as to where I have been.

“The Hobby-Smiths,” my wife will whisper as we go up the steps.  “Of course you’ve heard of her!  She is a great friend of Marie Van Duser, and her husband is something in Wall Street.”

That is a comparatively illuminating description.  At all events it insures some remote social connection with ourselves, if only through Miss Van Duser and Wall Street.  Most of our hosts are something in Wall Street.  Occasionally they are something in coal, iron, oil or politics.

I find a small envelope bearing my name on a silver tray by the hatstand and open it suspiciously as my wife is divested of her wraps.  Inside is a card bearing in an almost illegible scrawl the words:  Mrs. Jones.  I hastily refresh my recollection as to all the Joneses of my acquaintance, whether in coal, oil or otherwise; but no likely candidate for the distinction of being the husband of my future dinner companion comes to my mind.  Yet there is undoubtedly a Jones.  But, no!  The lady may be a divorcee or a widow.  I recall no Mrs. Jones, but I visualize various possible Miss Joneses—­ladies very fat and bursting; ladies scrawny, lean and sardonic; facetious ladies; heavy, intelligent ladies; aggressive, militant ladies.

My spouse has turned away from the mirror and the butler has pulled back the portieres leading into the drawing room.  I follow my wife’s composed figure as she sweeps toward our much-beplumed hostess and find myself in a roomful of heterogeneous people, most of whom I have never seen before and whose personal appearance is anything but encouraging.

“This is very nice!” says our hostess—­accent on the nice.

“So nice of you to think of us!” answers my wife.

We shake hands and smile vaguely.  The butler rattles the portieres and two more people come in.

“This is very nice!” says the hostess again—­accent on the is.

It may be here noted that at the conclusion of the evening each guest murmurs in a simpering, half-persuasive yet consciously deprecatory manner—­as if apologizing for the necessity of so bald a prevarication—­“Good-night!  We have had such a good time! So good of you to ask us!” This epilogue never changes.  Its phrase is cast and set.  The words may vary slightly, but the tone, emphasis and substance are inviolable.  Yet, disregarding the invocation good-night! the fact remains that neither have you had a good time nor was your host in any way good or kind in asking you.