smoked cigarettes, and with a careless grace which showed they were
used to the habit. Occasionally a "Damn it!" escaped from the lips
of some one of them, but in such a charming way as to rob it of all
vulgarity. The most notable thing which I observed was that the
reserve of the host increased in direct proportion with the hilarity
of his guests. I thought that there was something going wrong which
displeased him. I afterwards learned that it was his habitual manner
on such occasions. He seemed to take cynical delight in watching
and studying others indulging in excess. His guests were evidently
accustomed to his rather non-participating attitude, for it did not
seem in any degree to dampen their spirits.

When dinner was served, the piano was moved and the door left open, so
that the company might hear the music while eating. At a word from the
host I struck up one of my liveliest ragtime pieces. The effect was
surprising, perhaps even to the host; the ragtime music came very near
spoiling the party so far as eating the dinner was concerned. As soon
as I began, the conversation suddenly stopped. It was a pleasure to me
to watch the expression of astonishment and delight that grew on the
faces of everybody. These were people--and they represented a large
class--who were ever expecting to find happiness in novelty, each day
restlessly exploring and exhausting every resource of this great city
that might possibly furnish a new sensation or awaken a fresh emotion,
and who were always grateful to anyone who aided them in their quest.
Several of the women left the table and gathered about the piano. They
watched my fingers and asked what kind of music it was that I was
playing, where I had learned it, and a host of other questions. It
was only by being repeatedly called back to the table that they were
induced to finish their dinner. When the guests arose, I struck up my
ragtime transcription of Mendelssohn's "Wedding March," playing