ease, to play my part as a connoisseur of good things, and to keep the
conversational ball in the air, I unconsciously lose track of the number
of courses I have consumed.

It is also a matter of habit. As a boy I was compelled to eat everything
on my plate; and as I grew older I discovered that in our home town it
was good manners to leave nothing undevoured and thus pay a concrete
tribute to the culinary ability of the hostess. Be that as it may, I
have always liked to eat. It is almost the only thing left that I enjoy;
but, even so, my palate requires the stimulus of gin. I know that I am
getting fat. My waistcoats have to be let out a little more every five
or six months. Anyhow, if the men did not do their part there would be
little object for giving dinner parties in these days when slender women
are the fashion.

After the long straight front and the habit back, social usage is
frowning on the stomach, hips and other heretofore not unadmired
evidences of robust nutrition. Temperance, not to say total abstinence,
has become _de rigueur_ among the ladies. My dinner companion nibbles
her celery, tastes the soup, waves away fish, entrée and roast, pecks
once or twice at the salad, and at last consumes her ration of ice-cream
with obvious satisfaction. If there is a duck--well, she makes an
exception in the case of duck--at six dollars and a half a pair. A
couple of hothouse grapes and she is done.

It will be observed that this gives her all the more opportunity for
conversation--a doubtful blessing. On the other hand, there is an
equivalent economic waste. I have no doubt each guest would prefer to
have set before her a chop, a baked potato and a ten-dollar goldpiece.
It would amount to the same thing, so far as the host is concerned.