the sacred list of invitations?

To be sure, I used to go to dances enough as a lad; and good times I had
too. The High School Auditorium had a splendid floor; and the girls,
even though they were unacquainted with all these newfangled steps,
could waltz and polka, and do Sir Roger de Coverley. Good old days! I
remember my wife--met her in that old hall. She wore a white muslin
dress trimmed with artificial roses. I wonder if I properly appreciate
the distinction of being asked to Mrs. Jones' turkey-trotting parties!
My butler and the kitchen-maid are probably doing the same thing in the
basement at home to the notes of the usefulman's accordion--and having a
better time than I am.

It is a pleasure to watch my son or my daughters glide through the
intricacies of these modern dances, which the natural elasticity and
suppleness of youth render charming in spite of their grotesqueness. But
why should I seek to copy them? In spite of the fact that I am still
rather athletic I cannot do so. With my utmost endeavor I fail to
imitate their grace. I am getting old. My muscles are stiff and out of
training. My wind has suffered. Mrs. Jones probably never had any.

And if I am ridiculous, what of her and the other women of her age who,
for some unknown reason, fatuously suppose they can renew their lost
youth? Occasionally luck gives me a débutante for a partner when I go
out to dinner. I do my best to entertain her--trot out all my old jokes
and stories, pay her delicate compliments, and do frank homage to her
youth and beauty. But her attention wanders. My tongue is stiff, like my
legs. It can wag through the old motions, but it has lost its
spontaneity. One glance from the eye of the boy down the long table and
she is oblivious of my existence. Should I try to dance with her I