contained our evening apparel. During the run to the house we were both
on the verge of hysteria owing to the speed at which we were
driven--seventy miles an hour at the least. And at one corner we were
thrown forward, clear of the seats and against the partition, by an
unexpected stop. An interchange of French profanity tinted the
atmosphere for a few moments and then we resumed the trajectory of our
flight.

We had expected to be welcomed by our hostess; but instead we were
informed by the butler that she and the other guests had driven over to
watch a polo game and would probably not be back before six. As we had
nothing to do we strolled round the grounds and looked at the shrubbery
for a couple of hours, at the end of which period we had tea alone in
the library. We had, of course, no sooner finished than the belated
party entered, the hostess full of vociferous apologies.

I remember this occasion vividly because it was my first introduction to
that artificially enforced merriment which is the inevitable concomitant
of smart gatherings in America. The men invariably addressed each other
as Old Man and the women as My Dear. No one was mentioned except by his
or her first name or by some intimate diminutive or abbreviation. It
seemed to be assumed that the guests were only interested in personal
gossip relating to the marital infelicities of the neighboring
countryside, who lost most at cards, and the theater. Every remark
relating to these absorbing subjects was given a feebly humorous twist
and greeted with a burst of hilarity. Even the mere suggestion of going
upstairs to dress for dinner was a sufficient reason for an explosion of
merriment. If noise was an evidence of having a good time these people
were having the time of their lives. Personally I felt a little out of
my element. I had still a lingering disinclination to pretend to a