In the first place I am invariably tired when I come home at night—­less perhaps from the actual work I have done at my office than from the amount of tobacco I have consumed and the nervous strain attendant on hurrying from one engagement to another and keeping up the affectation of hearty good-nature which is part of my stock in trade.  At any rate, even if my body is not tired, my head, nerves and eyes are distinctly so.

I often feel, when my valet tells me that the motor is ordered at ten minutes to eight, that I would greatly enjoy having him slip into the dress-clothes he has so carefully laid out on my bed and go out to dinner in my place.  He would doubtless make himself quite as agreeable as I. And then—­let me see—­what would I do?  I sit with one of my accordion-plaited silk socks half on and surrender myself to all the delights of the most reckless imagination!

Yes, what would I choose if I could do anything in the world for the next three hours?  First, I think, I would like an egg—­a poached egg, done just right, like a little snowball, balanced nicely in the exact center of a hot piece of toast!  My mouth waters.  Aunt Jane used to do them like that.  And then I would like a crisp piece of gingerbread and a glass of milk.  Dress?  Not on your life!  Where is that old smoking-jacket of mine?  Not the one with Japanese embroidery on it—­no; the old one.  Given away?  I groan aloud.

Well, the silk one will have to do—­and a pair of comfortable slippers!  Where is that old brier pipe I keep to go a-fishing?  Now I want a book—­full of the sea and ships—­of pirates and coral reefs—­yes, Treasure Island; of course that’s it—­and Long John Silver and the Black Spot.

“Beg pardon, sir, but madam has sent me up to say the motor is waiting,” admonishes my English footman respectfully.

Gone—­gone is my poached egg, my pipe, my dream of the Southern Seas!  I dash into my evening clothes under the solicitous guidance of my valet and hastily descend in the electric elevator to the front hall.  My wife has already taken her seat in the motor, with an air of righteous annoyance, of courteously suppressed irritation.  The butler is standing on the doorstep.  The valet is holding up my fur coat expectantly.  I am sensible of an atmosphere of sad reproachfulness.

Oh, well!  I thrust my arms into my coat, grasp my white gloves and cane, receive my hat and wearily start forth on my evening’s task of being entertained; conscious as I climb into the motor that this curious form of so-called amusement has certain rather obvious limitations.

For what is its raison d’etre?  It is obvious that if I know any persons whose society and conversation are likely to give me pleasure I can invite them to my own home and be sure of an evening’s quiet enjoyment.  But, so far as I can see, my wife does not invite to our house the people who are likely to give either her or myself any pleasure at all, and neither am I likely to meet such people at the homes of my friends.