And if I am ridiculous, what of her and the other women of her age who, for some unknown reason, fatuously suppose they can renew their lost youth?  Occasionally luck gives me a debutante for a partner when I go out to dinner.  I do my best to entertain her—­trot out all my old jokes and stories, pay her delicate compliments, and do frank homage to her youth and beauty.  But her attention wanders.  My tongue is stiff, like my legs.  It can wag through the old motions, but it has lost its spontaneity.  One glance from the eye of the boy down the long table and she is oblivious of my existence.  Should I try to dance with her I should quickly find that crabbed middle-age and youth cannot step in time.  My place is with Mrs. Jones—­or, better, at home and in bed.

Apart, however, from the dubious delight of dancing, all is not gold that glitters socially.  The first time my wife and I were invited to a week-end party at the country-house of a widely known New York hostess we were both much excited.  At last we were to be received on a footing of real intimacy by one of the inner circle.  Even my valet, an imperturbable Englishman who would have announced that the house was on fire in the same tone as that my breakfast was ready, showed clearly that he was fully aware of the significance of the coming event.  For several days he exhibited signs of intense nervous anxiety, and when at last the time of my departure arrived I found that he had filled two steamer trunks with the things he regarded as indispensable for my comfort and well-being.

My wife’s maid had been equally assiduous.  Both she and the valet had no intention of learning on our return that any feature of our respective wardrobes had been forgotten; since we had decided not to take either of our personal servants, for the reason that we thought to do so might possibly be regarded as an ostentation.

I made an early getaway from my office on Friday afternoon, met my wife at the ferry, and in due course, but by no means with comfort, managed to board the train and secure our seats in the parlor car before it started.  We reached our destination at about half-past four and were met by a footman in livery, who piloted us to a limousine driven by a French chauffeur.  We were the only arrivals.

In my confusion I forgot to do anything about our trunks, which contained our evening apparel.  During the run to the house we were both on the verge of hysteria owing to the speed at which we were driven—­seventy miles an hour at the least.  And at one corner we were thrown forward, clear of the seats and against the partition, by an unexpected stop.  An interchange of French profanity tinted the atmosphere for a few moments and then we resumed the trajectory of our flight.

We had expected to be welcomed by our hostess; but instead we were informed by the butler that she and the other guests had driven over to watch a polo game and would probably not be back before six.  As we had nothing to do we strolled round the grounds and looked at the shrubbery for a couple of hours, at the end of which period we had tea alone in the library.  We had, of course, no sooner finished than the belated party entered, the hostess full of vociferous apologies.