I can quite understand that a young girl may not care much for the mere material dinner.  The palate is a pleasure of maturity.  The woman of fifty probably includes a menu or two among her most sacred memories; but the young girl is capable of dining on part of a cutlet, any pink sweetmeat, and some tea.  But I must confess that I was surprised at another objection to dining-out that a young girl, only at the end of her second season, once made to me.  She said that she positively could not stand any longer the conversation of the average young man of Society.  I asked her why, and she then asserted that this sort of young man confined himself to flat badinage and personal brag, which he was mistaken in believing to be veiled.  What she said was, of course, perfectly true.  Civilisation is responsible for the flat badinage, for civilisation requires that conversation shall be light and amusing, but can provide no remedy for slow wits; on the other hand, the personal brag is a relic of the original man.  The badinage is the young man’s defect in art; the brag is his defect in nature.  But I fail to see any objection to such conversation; on the contrary, it is charming because it is so average; you know beforehand just what you will hear and just what you will say, and everything is consequently made easy.  The man puts on that kind of talk just as he puts on his dress-coat; both are part of the evening uniform.  The motto of the perfect young man of Society is “I resemble.”  I pointed all this out to the young girl in question, and she retorted that it was a pity that silence was a lost art.  However, she continued to dine-out and to take her part in the only possible conversation, and after all Society rather encourages theoretical rebellion, provided that it is accompanied by practical submission.

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From the point of view of sentiment, a dinner has less potentialities than a dance; but the dinner may begin what the dance will end; you set light to the fuse in the dining-room, and the explosion takes place six weeks afterwards in someone-else’s conservatory.  Nothing much can be done on the staircase; but, if you can decently pretend that you have heard of the young man who is taking you in, he will probably like it.  If, after a few minutes, you decide that it is worth while to interest the young man, discourage his flat badinage, and encourage his personal brag.  The only thing in which it is quite certain that every man will be interested is, the interest someone else takes in him.  Later on, he will probably be induced to illustrate the topic of conversation by telling you (if it would not bore you) of a little incident which happened to himself.  The incident will be prettily coloured for dinner-table use, and he will make the story prove a merit in himself, which he will take care to disclaim vainly.  When he has finished, look very meditatively at your plate, as if you saw visions in it, and then turn on him suddenly with wide eyes—­with the right kind of eyelashes, this is effective.