trying.'




CHAPTER IV.

PROLOGUE TO A DINNER-PARTY.


I.

Even _unusual_ dinner-parties begin like ordinary ones. There is the
discomfiture of the guest who arrives first, subjected to his hostess's
reassurances that he is not really early. After what seems an
interminable length of time, during which a score of conversational
topics are broached, and both hostess and guest are reduced to a state
bordering on mutual animosity, the remainder of the party arrive _en
masse_, as if by collusion. The butler (who likes to chew the cud of
reflection between the announcements) is openly pained, while the
distracted hostess must manage the introductions, and, as friendships
are begun or enmities renewed, endeavour to initiate the new-comer into
the subject of conversation immediately preceding his or her entrance.
As the good woman's subconscious mind is in the kitchen, and as she is
constantly interrupted by the necessity of greeting new arrivals, she
usually succeeds in mystifying every one, and creating that atmosphere
of 'nerves' so familiar to denizens of the best sets.

But we had almost forgotten--there is always one guest who is late.