Now it is undubitably the truth that my wife regards our place among the socially elect as the crowning achievement--the great desideratum--of our joint career. It is what we have always been striving for. Without it we--both of us--would have unquestionably acknowledged failure. My future, my reputation, my place at the bar and my domestic life would have meant nothing at all to us, had not the grand cordon of success been thrown across our shoulders by society. * * * * * As I have achieved my ambition in this respect it is no small part of my self-imposed task to somewhat analyze this, the chief reward of my devotion to my profession, my years of industrious application, my careful following of the paths that other successful Americans have blazed for me. I must confess at the outset that it is ofttimes difficult to determine where the pleasure ends and work begins. Even putting it in this way, I fear I am guilty of a euphemism; for, now that I consider the matter honestly, I recall no real pleasure or satisfaction derived from the various entertainments I have attended during the last five or ten years. In the first place I am invariably tired when I come home at night--less perhaps from the actual work I have done at my office than from the amount of tobacco I have consumed and the nervous strain attendant on hurrying from one engagement to another and keeping up the affectation of hearty good-nature which is part of my stock in trade. At any rate, even if my body is not tired, my head, nerves and eyes are distinctly so. I often feel, when my valet tells me that the motor is ordered at ten minutes to eight, that I would greatly enjoy having him slip into the dress-clothes he has so carefully laid out on my bed and go out to dinner in my place. He would doubtless make himself quite as agreeable as I. And then--let me see--what would I do? I sit with one of my accordion-plaited silk socks half on and surrender myself to all the delights of the most reckless imagination! Yes, what would I choose if I could do anything in the world for the next three hours? First, I think, I would like an egg--a poached egg, done just right, like a little snowball, balanced nicely in the exact center of a hot piece of toast! My mouth waters. Aunt Jane used to do them like that. And then I would like a crisp piece of gingerbread and a glass of milk. Dress? Not on your life! Where is that old smoking-jacket of mine? Not the one with Japanese embroidery on it--no; the old one. Given away? I groan aloud. Well, the silk one will have to do--and a pair of comfortable slippers! Where is that old brier pipe I keep to go a-fishing? Now I want a book--full of the sea and ships--of pirates and coral reefs--yes, Treasure Island; of course that's it--and Long John Silver and the Black Spot. "Beg pardon, sir, but madam has sent me up to say the motor is waiting," admonishes my English footman respectfully.