“Well, you have to serve so much with a dinner, nowadays,” Mrs. Carew said, in a mildly martyred tone.  “Crackers and everything else with oysters—­I’m going to have cucumber sandwiches with the soup—­”

“Delicious!” said Mrs. Lloyd.

“‘Cucumbers, olives, salted nuts, currant jelly’”, Mrs. Carew was reading her list, “’ginger chutney, saltines, bar-le-duc, cream cheese’, those are for the salad, you know, ’dinner rolls, sandwich bread, fancy cakes, Maraschino cherries, maple sugar,’ that’s to go hot on the ice, I’m going to serve it in melons, and ’candy’—­just pink and green wafers, I think.  All that before it comes to the actual dinner at all, and it’s all so fussy!”

“Don’t say one word!” said Mrs. Lloyd, sympathetically.  “But it sounds dee-licious!” she added consolingly, and little Mrs. Carew went contentedly home to a hot and furious session in her kitchen; hours of baking, boiling and frying, chopping and whipping and frosting, creaming and seasoning, freezing and straining.

“I don’t mind the work, if only everything goes right!” Mrs. Carew would say gallantly to herself, and it must be said to her credit that usually everything did “go right” at her house, although even the maids in the kitchen, heroically attacking pyramids of sticky plates, were not so tired as she was, when the dinner was well over.

But there was a certain stimulus in the mere thought of entertaining Mrs. Burgoyne, and there was the exhilarating consciousness that one of these days she would entertain in turn; so the Santa Paloma housewives exerted themselves to the utmost of their endurance, and one delightful dinner party followed another.

But a dispassionate onlooker from another planet might have found it curious to notice, in contrast to this uniformity, that no two women dressed alike on these occasions, and no woman who could help it wore the same gown twice.  Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Carew, to be sure, wore their “little old silks” more than once, but each was secretly consoled by the thought that a really “smart” new gown awaited Mrs. White’s dinner; which was naturally the climax of all the affairs.  Only the wearers and their dress-makers knew what hours had been spent upon these costumes, what discouraged debates attended their making, what muscular agonies their fitting.  Only they could have estimated, and they never did estimate—­the time lost over pattern books, the nervous strain of placing this bit of spangled net or that square inch of lace, the hurried trips downtown for samples and linings, for fringes and embroideries and braids and ribbons.  The gown that she wore to her own dinner, Mrs. White had had fitted in the Maison Dernier Mot, in Paris;—­it was an enchanting frock of embroidered white illusion, over pink illusion, over black illusion, under a short heavy tunic of silver spangles and threads.  The yoke was of wonderful old lace, and there was a girdle of heavy pink cords, and silver clasps, to match the aigrette that was held by pink and silver cords in Mrs. White’s beautifully arranged hair.