should quickly find that crabbed middle-age and youth cannot step in
time. My place is with Mrs. Jones--or, better, at home and in bed.

Apart, however, from the dubious delight of dancing, all is not gold
that glitters socially. The first time my wife and I were invited to a
week-end party at the country-house of a widely known New York hostess
we were both much excited. At last we were to be received on a footing
of real intimacy by one of the inner circle. Even my valet, an
imperturbable Englishman who would have announced that the house was on
fire in the same tone as that my breakfast was ready, showed clearly
that he was fully aware of the significance of the coming event. For
several days he exhibited signs of intense nervous anxiety, and when at
last the time of my departure arrived I found that he had filled two
steamer trunks with the things he regarded as indispensable for my
comfort and well-being.

My wife's maid had been equally assiduous. Both she and the valet had no
intention of learning on our return that any feature of our respective
wardrobes had been forgotten; since we had decided not to take either of
our personal servants, for the reason that we thought to do so might
possibly be regarded as an ostentation.

I made an early getaway from my office on Friday afternoon, met my wife
at the ferry, and in due course, but by no means with comfort, managed
to board the train and secure our seats in the parlor car before it
started. We reached our destination at about half-past four and were
met by a footman in livery, who piloted us to a limousine driven by a
French chauffeur. We were the only arrivals.

In my confusion I forgot to do anything about our trunks, which