m for the rest
of his life as a punishment. There is only one thing longer--though it
sounds rather like a paradox to say so--and that is a "long day." To
"spend a long day" with anyone sees both you and your hostess "sold up"
long before the evening. Happily, that infliction is a country form of
entertainment, and is reserved principally for relations and family
friends who might otherwise expect us to ask them for a month.

You see, most of us are creatures possessing habits as well as a liver.
Visitors are a fearful strain on both--after forty-eight hours. The
strain of appearing at our most hospitable and best--from the breakfast
egg in the morning to the "nightcap" at night--is one which only those
who are given a bed-sitting-room and a door with a key in it can come
through triumphantly. Visitors usually have nothing to do, while we
have our own work--and the two can rarely mate for long. Of course,
there are visitors who seem born with a gift for visiting; they give us
of their brightest and best for forty-eight hours and have "letters to
write" up in their bedroom during most of the subsequent days of their
sojourn. Also there are hostesses who seem born with the "smile of
cordiality" fixed on to their mouths. They also give of their best and
brightest for forty-eight hours and then, metaphorically, give their
guests a latch-key and a time-table of meals, and wash their hands of
them until they meet again on the door-step of "farewell." But the
majority of visitors seem incapable of leading their own lives in any
house except their own. They follow you about and wait for you at odd
corners, until you are either driven to committing murder or going out
to the post-office to send a telegram to yourself killing off a great
aunt and giving an early date for her funeral. Also there are some
hostesses who cannot let their guests alone; who must always be asking
them "What are they going to do to-day," or telling them not to forget
that Lady Sploshykins is coming to tea especially to meet them!
Frantic for our entertainment, they invite all the dull people of the
neighbourhood to meals, and drag us along with them to the dull
people's houses on the exchange visit. They are always terrified that
we are "feeling it dull," whereas the dulness really comes of our not
being allowed to stupefy in peace.

"Never outstay your welcome" is one of the social adages I would
impress upon all young people; and "Be extre