I wake with a thin, fine line of pain over my right eye, and a heavy head.  A strong cup of coffee sets me up and I feel better; but as the morning wears on, especially if I am nervous, the weariness in my head returns.  By luncheon time I am cross and upset.  Often by six o’clock I have a severe sick headache.  When I do not have a headache I am usually depressed; my brain feels like a lump of lead.  And I know precisely the cause:  It is that I do not give my nerve-centers sufficient rest.  If I could spend the evenings—­or half of them—­quietly I should be well enough; but after I am tired out by a day’s work I come home only to array myself to go out to saw social wood.

I never get rested!  My head gets heavier and heavier and finally gives way.  There is no immediate cause.  It is the fact that my nervous system gets more and more tired without any adequate relief.  The feeling of complete restedness, so far as my brain is concerned, is one I almost never experience.  When I do wake up with my head clear and light my heart sings for joy.  My effectiveness is impaired by weariness and overeating, through a false effort at recuperation.  I have known this for a long time, but I have seen no escape from it.

Social life is one of the objects of living in New York; and social life to ninety per cent of society people means nothing but eating one another’s dinners.  Men never pay calls or go to teas.  The dinner, which has come to mean a heavy, elaborate meal, eaten amid noise, laughter and chatter, at great expense, is the expression of our highest social aspirations.  Thus it would seem, though I had not thought of it before, that I work seven or eight hours every day in order to make myself rather miserable for the rest of the time.

“I am going to lie down and rest this afternoon,” my wife will sometimes say.  “We’re dining with the Robinsons.”

Extraordinary that pleasure should be so exhausting as to require rest in anticipation!  Dining with these particular and other in-general Robinsons has actually become a physical feat of endurance—­a tour de force, like climbing the Matterhorn or eating thirteen pounds of beefsteak at a sitting.  Is it a reminiscence of those dim centuries when our ancestors in the forests of the Elbe sat under the moss-hung oaks and stuffed themselves with roast ox washed down with huge skins of wine?  Or is it a custom born of those later days when, round the blazing logs of Canadian campfires, our Indian allies gorged themselves into insensibility to the sound of the tom-tom and the chant of the medicine-man—­the latter quite as indispensable now as then?

If I should be called on to explain for what reason I am accustomed to eat not wisely but too well on these joyous occasions, I should be somewhat at a loss for any adequate reply.  Perhaps the simplest answer would be that I have just imbibed a cocktail and created an artificial appetite.  It is also probable that, in my efforts to appear happy and at ease, to play my part as a connoisseur of good things, and to keep the conversational ball in the air, I unconsciously lose track of the number of courses I have consumed.