The other day I received Mrs. Radigan's card for her "every other Thursday in December." A delicate bit of card-board bearing the name of Miss Veal was enclosed with it. As they had sent out some 5,000 of them, it seemed to me that a splendid opportunity for advertising was missed, as they might have included Radigan's, with his downtown and uptown office addresses, and the list of his firm's various exchanges. But as I have said before, my friends are observing. They have learned that when a man goes into society he must leave his business behind him, unless he be an architect, a real-estate man, or a champagne agent. These three classes are, of course, exceptions to the rule. Society tolerates them, realizing that they must live, but makes them lead cotillons and do other foolish things, as a part compensation for the concessions in their case. One of the first observations I ever made to Radigan was on this point, and I must say that he has generally shown rare good sense. He says that they do so well because they have horse sense. With a four-in-hand or two, and a stable of polo ponies, a man can butt down many a closed door. An evidence of this lies in the fact that Mrs. Radigan got a card from one of the Williegilt families, which is presenting a plain daughter with a large fortune. Mrs. Radigan almost died of disappointment that her own "day" interfered with her going, and at one time I thought she would order a recess in the home function to give her an opportunity of showing herself at the other most exclusive house. But she repressed her ambition and went through the ordeal at home most nobly. I happened to pass the Williegilt house that afternoon and I could not help contrasting the scene there with that I saw later before my friends' mansion. The street was blocked by a tangle of carriages, two or three seeming lunatics were running up and down shouting numbers like mad, a couple of policemen were kept busy regulating traffic at the avenue corner, and the awning from the curb to the door was so bulging with humanity that you could see the elbows working along the canvas as the compressed human beings squirmed in and out. The Radigans could boast no such scene as this, but I feel sure that in two years more they will beat it, and perhaps they will even have a riot when they marry Miss Veal to a title. As it was, their preliminary event was most satisfactory. Of course, they could not ask any of their old friends, and had to depend entirely on the new crop, which, divided between two days, made the attendance light.