So when your house is “in order” and the last pictures and curtains are hung, the impulse suddenly comes to you to give a dinner!  Your husband thinks it is a splendid idea.  It merely remains to decide whom you will ask.  You hesitate between a few of your own intimates, or older people, and decide it would be such fun to ask a few of the hostesses whose houses you have almost lived at ever since you “came out.”  You decide to ask Mrs. Toplofty, Mr. Clubwin Doe, the Worldlys, the Gildings, and the Kindharts and the Wellborns.  With yourselves that makes twelve.  You can’t have more than twelve because you have only a dozen of everything; in fact you decide that twelve will be pretty crowded, but that it will be safe to ask that number because a few are sure to “regret.”  So you write notes (since it is to be a formal dinner), and—­they all accept!  You are a little worried about the size of the dining-room, but you are overcome by the feeling of your popularity.  Now the thing to do is to prepare for a dinner.  The fact that Nora probably can’t make fancy dishes does not bother you a bit.  In your mind’s eye you see delicious plain food passed; you must get Sigrid a dress that properly fits her, and Delia, the chambermaid (who was engaged with the understanding that she was to serve in the dining-room when there was company), has not yet been at table, but she is a very willing young person who will surely look well.

Nora, when you tell her who are coming, eagerly suggests the sort of menu that would appear on the table of the Worldlys or the Gildings.  You are thrilled at the thought of your own kitchen producing the same.  That it may be the same in name only, does not occur to you.  You order flowers for the table, and candy for your four compotiers.  You pick out your best tablecloth, but you find rather to your amazement that when the waitress asks you about setting the table, you have never noticed in detail how the places are laid.  Knives and spoons go on the right of the plate, of course, and forks on the left, but which goes next to the plate, or whether the wine glasses should stand nearer or beyond the goblet you can only guess.  It is quite simple, however, to give directions in serving; you just tell the chambermaid that she is to follow the waitress, and pass the sauces and the vegetables.  And you have already explained carefully to the latter that she must not deal plates around the table like a pack of cards, or ever take them off in piles either. (That much at least you do know.) You also make it a point above everything that the silver must be very clean; Sigrid seems to understand, and with the optimism of youth, you approach the dinner hour without misgiving.  The table, set with your wedding silver and glass, looks quite nice.  You are a little worried about the silver—­it does look rather yellow, but perhaps it is just a shadow.  Then you notice there are a great many forks on the table!  You ask your husband what is the matter with the forks?  He does not see anything wrong.  You need them all for the dinner you ordered, how can there be less?  So you straighten a candlestick that was out of line, and put the place cards on.