As a boy I had a full suit of company manners which I wore only when guests were present, and so was always sorry to have guests come.  I sat back on the chair instead of on its edge; I didn’t swing my legs unless I had a lapse of memory; I said, “Yes, ma’am,” and, “No, ma’am,” like any other parrot, just as I did at rehearsal; and, in short, I was a most exemplary child save for occasional reactions to unlooked-for situations.  The folks knew I was posing, and were on nettles all the while from fear of a breakdown; the guests knew I was posing, and I knew I was posing.  But we all pretended to one another that that was the regular order of procedure in our house.  So we had a very gratifying concert exercise in hypocrisy.  We said our prayers that night just as usual.

With such thorough training in my youth it is not at all strange that I now consider myself rather an adept in the prevailing social usages.  At a musicale I applaud fit to blister my hands, even though I feel positively pugnacious.  But I know the singer has an encore prepared, and I feel that it would be ungracious to disappoint her.  Besides, I argue with myself that I can stand it for five minutes more if the others can.  Professor James, I think it is, says that we ought to do at least one disagreeable thing each day as an aid in the development of character.  Being rather keen on character development, I decide on a double dose of the disagreeable while opportunity favors.  Hence my vigorous applauding.  Then, too, I realize that the time and place are not opportune for an expression of my honest convictions; so I choose the line of least resistance and well-nigh blister my hands to emphasize my hypocrisy.

At a formal dinner I have been known to sink so low into the depths of hypocrisy as to eat shrimp salad.  But when one is sitting next to a lady who seems a confirmed celibate, and who seems to find nothing better than to become voluble on the subject of her distinguished ancestors, even shrimp salad has its uses.  Now, under normal conditions my perverted and plebeian taste regards shrimp salad as a banality, but at that dinner I ate it with apparent relish, and tried not to make a wry face.  But, worst of all, I complimented the hostess upon the excellence of the dinner, and extolled the salad particularly, although we both knew that the salad was a failure, and that the dinner itself convicted the cook of a lack of experience or else of a superfluity of potations.

When the refreshments are served I take a thimbleful of ice-cream and an attenuated wafer, and then solemnly declare to the maid that I have been abundantly served.  In the hallowed precincts that I call my den I could absorb nine rations such as they served and never bat an eye.  And yet, in making my adieus to the hostess, I thank her most effusively for a delightful evening, refreshments included, and then hurry grumbling home to get something to eat.  Such are some of the