talk from their partners, and the ladies have a singularly pretty way of saying the most biting things in a smooth and unconcerned fashion when they find a dunce beginning to talk platitudes or to patronize his partner; but the middle generation are unspeakably inane; and the worst is that they regard their inanity as a decided sign of distinction.  A grave man who adds a sense of humour to his gravity may find a sort of melancholy entertainment if he listens to a pair of thorough-paced “Society” gentry.  He will learn that you do not go to a “function” to please others or to be pleased yourself; you must not be witty—­that is bad form; you must not be quietly in earnest—­that is left to literary people; you must not speak plain, direct truth even in the most restrained fashion—­that is to render yourself liable to be classified as a savage.  No.  You go to a “function” in order, firstly, to see who else is there; secondly, to let others see you; thirdly, to be able to say to absentees that you saw they were not there; fourthly, to say, with a liquid roll on the “ll,” “She’s looking remarkably wellll.”  These are the great and glorious duties of the Society person.  A little funny creature was once talking to a writer of some distinction.  The little funny man would have been like a footman if he had been eight inches taller, for his manners savoured of the pantry.  As it was, he succeeded in resembling a somewhat diminutive valet who had learnt his style and accent from a cook.  The writer, out of common politeness, spoke of some ordinary topic, and the valet observed with honest pride, “We don’t talk about that sort of thing.”  The writer smiled grimly from under his jutting brows, and he repeated that valet’s terrific repartee for many days.  The actual talk which goes on runs in this way, “Quite charming weather!” “Yes, very.”  “I didn’t see you at Lady Blank’s on Tuesday?” “No; we could hardly arrange to suit times at all.”  “She was looking uncommonly well.  The new North-Country girl has come out.”  “So I’ve heard.”  “Going to Goodwood?” “Yes.  We take Brighton this time with the Sendalls.”  And so on.  It dribbles for the regulation time, and, after a sufficient period of mortal endurance, the crowd disperse, and proceed to scandalize each other or to carry news elsewhere about the ladies who were looking “remarkably well-l-l.”

As for the dreadful crushes, what can one say?  The absurd rooms where six hundred people try to move about in a space meant for three hundred; the staircase a Black-Hole tempered by flowers; the tired smile of the hostess; the set simper of long-recked shaven young men; the patient, tortured hypocrisy of hustled and heated ladies; the babble of scrappy nothings; the envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness; the magnificence turned into meanness; the lack of all feeling of home, and the discontented dispersal of ungrateful people—­are these the things to occupy life?  Are these the things to interest any manly man who is free to act for himself?  Hardly.