ed yourself; you must not be witty--that is bad
form; you must not be quietly in earnest--that is left to literary
people; you must not speak plain, direct truth even in the most
restrained fashion--that is to render yourself liable to be classified
as a savage. No. You go to a "function" in order, firstly, to see who
else is there; secondly, to let others see you; thirdly, to be able to
say to absentees that you saw they were not there; fourthly, to say,
with a liquid roll on the "ll," "She's looking remarkably wellll."
These are the great and glorious duties of the Society person. A little
funny creature was once talking to a writer of some distinction. The
little funny man would have been like a footman if he had been eight
inches taller, for his manners savoured of the pantry. As it was, he
succeeded in resembling a somewhat diminutive valet who had learnt his
style and accent from a cook. The writer, out of common politeness,
spoke of some ordinary topic, and the valet observed with honest pride,
"_We_ don't talk about that sort of thing." The writer smiled grimly
from under his jutting brows, and he repeated that valet's terrific
repartee for many days. The actual talk which goes on runs in this way,
"Quite charming weather!" "Yes, very." "I didn't see you at Lady Blank's
on Tuesday?" "No; we could hardly arrange to suit times at all." "She
was looking uncommonly well. The new North-Country girl has come out."
"So I've heard." "Going to Goodwood?" "Yes. We take Brighton this time
with the Sendalls." And so on. It dribbles for the regulation time, and,
after a sufficient period of mortal endurance, the crowd disperse, and
proceed to scandalize each other or to carry news elsewhere about the
ladies who were looking "remarkably well-l-l."

As for the dreadful crushes, what can one say? The absurd rooms where
six hundred people try to move about in a space meant for three hundred;
the staircase a Black-Hole tempered by flowers; the tired smile of the
hostess; the set simper of long-recked shaven young men; the patient,
tortured hypocrisy of hustled and heated ladies; the babble of scrappy
nothings; the envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness; the
magnificence turned into meanness; the lack of all feeling of home, and
the discontented dispersal of ungrateful people--are these the things to
occupy life? Are these the things to interest any manly man who is free
to act for himself? Hardly.

But our "company" refe