It could never have happened to us anywhere in New York but at Mrs. Baxter’s. I say this not with bitterness at, but in calm recognition of, the merits and demerits of that universally esteemed lady. Abroad, with the lords chamberlain, herald’s offices, and peerages, it would be impossible. In the far West, where the biography and genealogy of the leading families are not subjects for polite conversation, it might occur frequently. But in New York, lying between these two extremes, one is safe, except from accidents due to the unfortunate existence of a peculiar class of people. The kind I refer to are those described as having a good heart. Such an organ involves, as a natural corollary, a weak head. These qualities in combination are a terrible menace to society; for, owing to the very goodness of heart, their possessors are pardoned over and over again, and repeat their ill deeds with as much immunity from punishment as a New York police captain. Every social circle has one or more of these half-criminals, and in that in which my lot was cast Mrs. Baxter was unequalled for the number, ingenuity, and innocence of her mistakes. Omitting all hearsay and they-say knowledge, I was her forty-seventh victim; and as pœnologists affirm that more than half of the criminal acts are undiscovered, it can at once be seen how society is menaced by people with good hearts. The lady who always tells me when I do wrong—and to married men I need not be more descriptive—has held me responsible for that evening; and, since she married me, her husband is not the one to impeach her discrimination. She insists that, knowing Mrs. Baxter, I should have come early, and so had time to arrange matters quietly. I appeal to any man if it would ever occur to him to get to a dinner early on the possibility he was to sit next a lighted shell, in order that he might express to his hostess his dislike of explosives. All New York has known for years of our family feud. It’s been common property ever since our esteemed ancestors thrashed it out in court, to the enjoyment of the public and the disruption of our family. For thirty years dinners, luncheons, yacht cruises, and house parties have been arranged so as to keep a proper distance between the descendants of my grandfather John Cortelyou and of his nephew Dabney. Sometimes I have seen one of the latter at the opposite end of a large dinner-table, and here and there I have had other glimpses of them. But until that evening, no matter how close chance brought us together, we had always succeeded in maintaining a dignified unconsciousness of each other’s existence. I was, let it be confessed, thirty minutes late, and merely accepting the last little envelope on the tray the footman offered me, hurried towards the drawing-room. On my way I naturally looked at the card inside and read: _Mr. Pellew. Miss Cortelyou._