I am feeling worn out to-day--utterly exhausted--and am registering all kinds of vows that I shall never lead another cotillon--that is, after I keep my promises to Mrs. Timpleton Duff, Jimmy Doily, and one or two others. I thought last night that the Twitters' small dance would be the end of me. In one of those solemn moments when death seemed very near, when, in an effort to arrange a new figure, I was being trampled on, and elbowed and hurled to and fro in the maelstrom, there flashed to my mind the simple epitaph I would have on my tombstone: "He died for Society." But I survived. What a seasoned veteran of these social engagements I have become! Teas, dinners, operas, and dances--I seem to move through them bearing a charmed life. I am a bit like Achilles or Ulysses, that old Trojan hero, whoever he was, whose heel was his only vulnerable spot, a fact which seems to have become known among the younger set, for that was the target at which they all aimed. I did not mind an elbow or two in the eye; I did not mind a blow over the nose with a parasol-favor; I did not mind when Winthrop Jumpkin, 7th, who was trying to dance the Boston, struck me violently in the small of the back with Sally Bilberry; but when Mrs. John Radigan, who hops dreadfully, landed her two hundred pounds on my heel in some indescribable fashion, everything seemed to swim before my eyes, and for a minute I had difficulty in retaining my expression. Of course there is some balm in seeing in to-day's paper, the one that prints all the news that is worth reading, that Mr. Mudison led a delightful cotillon, dancing with Miss Susanna Twitter, a statement which I believe emanated from Mrs. Twitter's secretary, and was given out for publication quite early in the afternoon. But, then, all cotillons are delightful; all dinners delightful; everything that we do is delightful. It is best to be optimistic. It is best to rave over this boresome round of festivity when it is one's life.