It happened in this way:  Hardly had I returned to my delightful apartment at the hotel, when a messenger arrived bearing a superbly engraved command from Jupiter to dine with himself and Juno en famille.  It was a kind, courteous, and friendly note, utterly devoid of formality, and we were to spend the evening at cards.  Jupiter had indicated in the afternoon that he would like to learn bridge, and, inasmuch as I never travel anywhere without a text-book upon that fascinating subject, I had volunteered to teach him.  The dinner was given largely to enable me to do this, and, moreover, Jupiter was quite anxious to have me meet his family, and promised me that before the evening was over I should hear some music from the lyre of Apollo, meet all the muses, and enjoy a chafing-dish snack prepared by the fair hand of Juno herself.

“I’ll have Polyphemus up to give us a few coon songs if you like them,” he added, “and altogether I can promise you a delightful evening.  We drop all our state at these affairs, and I know you’ll enjoy yourself.”

“I shall feel a trifle embarrassed in the presence of so many gods and goddesses, I am afraid,” I put in.

“I’ll fix you out as to that,” Jupiter replied.  “I’ll change you for the time being into a god yourself, if you wish.”

I laughed at the idea.

“A high old god I’d make,” said I.

“You’d pass,” he observed, quietly.  “I’ll call you Pencillius, god of Chirography—­or would you rather come as Nonsensius, the newly discovered deity of Jocosity?”

“I think I’d rather be Zero, god of Nit,” said I, and it was so ordained.

Of course, I accepted the invitation and was on hand at the palace, as I thought, promptly.  As a matter of fact, my watch having in some mysterious fashion been affected by the excitement of the adventure, got galloping away just as my own heart had done more than once.  The result was that, instead of arriving at the palace at eight o’clock, as I was expected to do, I got there at seven.  Of course, my exalted hosts were not ready to receive me, and there were no other guests to bear me company and keep me out of mischief in the drawing-room, where for an hour I was compelled to wait.  At first all went well.  I found much entertainment in the room, and on the centre-table, a beautiful bit of furniture, carved out of one huge amethyst, I discovered a number of books and magazines, which kept me tolerably busy for a half-hour.  There was a finely bound copy of Don’ts for the Gods, or Celestial Etiquette, in which I found many valuable hints on the procedure of Olympian society—­notably one injunction as to the use of finger-bowls, from which I learned that the gods in their lavishness have a bowl for each finger; and a little volume by Bacchus on Intemperance, which I wish I might publish for the benefit of my fellow-mortals.  All I remember about it at the moment of writing is that the author seriously enjoins upon his readers the wickedness of drinking more than sixty cocktails a day, and utterly deprecates the habit of certain Englishmen of drinking seven bottles of port at a sitting.  Bacchus seemed to think that, with the other wines incidental to a dinner, no one, not even an Englishman, should attempt to absorb more than five bottles of port over his coffee.  It struck me as being rather good advice.