an air of unutterable self-sacrifice, "I suppose that we ought
sometimes to be ready to submit to the tortures we inflict on
others." Imagine a circle of guests assembled in such a frame of
mind, and it would seem that one had all the materials for a
thoroughly pleasant party.

I was lately taken by a friend, with whom I was staying in the
country, to a garden party. I confess that I think it would be hard
to conceive circumstances less favourable to personal enjoyment.
The day was hot, and I was uncomfortably dressed. I found myself
first in a hot room, where the host and hostess were engaged in
what is called receiving. A stream of pale, perspiring people moved
slowly through, some of them frankly miserable, some with an air of
false geniality, which deceived no one, written upon their faces.
"So pleasant to see so many friends!" "What a delightful day you
have got for your party!" Such ineptitudes were the current coin of
the market. I passed on into another room where refreshment, of a
nature that I did not want, was sadly accepted. And I then passed
out into the open air; the garden was disagreeably crowded; there
was "a din of doubtful talk," as Rossetti says. The sun beat down
dizzily on my streaming brow. I joined group after group, where the
conversation was all of the same easy and stimulating character,
until I felt sick and faint (though of robust constitution) with
the "mazes of heat and sound" in which my life seemed "turning,
turning," like the life of the heroine of "Requiescat." I declare
that such a performance is the sort of thing that I should expect
to find in hell, even down to the burning marl, as Milton says. I
got away dizzy, unstrung, unfit for life, with that terrible sense
of fatigue unaccompanied by wholesome tiredness, that comes of
standing in hot buzzing places. I had heard not a single word that