In social as well as military operations a reconnaissance is always wise. I dropped in to speak to the Twitters first, and made a few observations. I must admit that to the eye the Styne box was everything that it should be. From the artistic point of view it was without a flaw, for with two lovely women like young Mrs. Morgan Styne and Mrs. Underbunk in the front, and such distinguished-looking men as Styne and Julius Hogginson Fairfield whispering over-shoulder to them, they were really conspicuous. In every way they seemed to have emphasized their good taste and their ignorance of the customs of our society. I saw an oasis. I saw a restful, quiet spot, surrounded by the glare of the desert of jewels. From them my eyes wandered around the horseshoe, wandered along that diamond-fronted row, now and again pausing to rest on some familiar figure where a pathetic effort had been made to secure with money what Nature had not given. I fear that Gladys Underbunk is warping my view of life. Why, I actually found myself admitting that young Mrs. Harry Garish, with her hair done in Merodish fashion and intertwined with pearls to the value of a king's ransom, was hopelessly plain. She poses as clever as well as smart, and so affects Cleopatra costumes. Her elbow almost touched Mrs. Underbunk's over the railing, and the comparison was such that I was simply astonished that for so many years I had been one of her train. Mrs. Garish was probably wondering where Gladys Underbunk had picked up such friends. She would faint when she saw me joining the party. But I was bold.