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 divorcée 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 portières leading into the drawing room. I follow my wife's composed