the champagne so hot, and why are the ices
so salt and hard? I know something is the matter with the claret:
something is always the matter with the claret. It has been iced, and
the champagne has been standing for days in an equable temperature of
65 deg..

[Illustration: "It is midnight; I am tired to death. Yes, Bielby
_will_ have something to drink, and another cigar--a very large one."]

When they want to go away, it is a wet night, and those who have come
in cabs cannot get cabs to go back in. The Duchess's coachman lost his
way, coming here, she was half-an-hour late: she is anxious about his
finding his way home. GRIGSBY has got at the Psychical-Researcher, and
I hear him telling stories, as personal experiences, which I know are
not true. Psychical-Researchers have no sense of humour. "S.P.R.,"
why not "S.P.Q.R.?" I hear GRIGSBY asking, and suggesting "Society for
Propagating Rubbish." It is very rude of him, and not at all funny.

However, they do go away at last, that advantage a dinner at home
has over a dinner at the Club, there they often seem as if they would
never go away at all.

On the other hand, the wine is all right at the Club, I believe, for
I know nothing about wine myself. Some men talk of nothing else, and
seem to know the vintages without looking at the names on the bottles.

The worst of giving a dinner at the Club is, that I never know how
many men I have asked, nor even who they are. It is enough if I
remember the date. It might be a good thing to write these matters
down in a Diary, or on a big sheet of paper, pinned up in one's room.
I know I have written to ask some Americans whom I have not seen:
they brought letters of introduction. I forget their names--there is a
Professor who has written a novel, there is a General, I think, and a
Mad Doctor.

My best plan will be to stand about in the drawing-room, and try to
select them as they come in. Here is WILKINSON, who was at St. Jude's
with me: I shake hands with him warmly. He looks blank. It is not
WILKINSON, after all; it is a stranger, he is dining with somebody
else. Some other men have come in while I am apologising. One of them
comes up and says, "Mr. McDUFFER!" He must be an American. Which? He
tells me: he is the Mad Doctor. He introduces his countrymen; they
all say "Mr. McDUFFER!" How am I to remember which is the General and
which is the Professor? Other people drop in. Here is CRIMPTON. He
is a Reviewer. Clever fellow,