Well, the silk one will have to do--and a pair of comfortable slippers!
Where is that old brier pipe I keep to go a-fishing? Now I want a
book--full of the sea and ships--of pirates and coral reefs--yes,
Treasure Island; of course that's it--and Long John Silver and the Black
Spot.

"Beg pardon, sir, but madam has sent me up to say the motor is waiting,"
admonishes my English footman respectfully.

Gone--gone is my poached egg, my pipe, my dream of the Southern Seas! I
dash into my evening clothes under the solicitous guidance of my valet
and hastily descend in the electric elevator to the front hall. My wife
has already taken her seat in the motor, with an air of righteous
annoyance, of courteously suppressed irritation. The butler is standing
on the doorstep. The valet is holding up my fur coat expectantly. I am
sensible of an atmosphere of sad reproachfulness.

Oh, well! I thrust my arms into my coat, grasp my white gloves and cane,
receive my hat and wearily start forth on my evening's task of being
entertained; conscious as I climb into the motor that this curious form
of so-called amusement has certain rather obvious limitations.

For what is its _raison d'être_? It is obvious that if I know any
persons whose society and conversation are likely to give me pleasure I
can invite them to my own home and be sure of an evening's quiet
enjoyment. But, so far as I can see, my wife does not invite to our
house the people who are likely to give either her or myself any
pleasure at all, and neither am I likely to meet such people at the
homes of my friends.