When THE PHILISTINE said some time ago that hospitality had become an exchange he meant an exchange of food. There is no plainer way to state the fact—short of nausea. Of course hospitality does not start at eating. That is where it ends. The starting point is the purest courtesy—the _caritas_ that “seeketh not her own,” “is not puffed up” and “abideth” as the head of the trinity of eternal virtues. But on the most generous of virtues grows the most selfish of vices, and ostentation is the death-dealing parasite that destroys primitive hospitality. Mrs. Moor Gage lives in the suburbs. It is the proper place to live—if you can. She has neighbors and likes them. She calls, swaps cards with the ladies, imbibes a little hot water, and then gets along where her social position requires somebody should be fed. She is just as good as Mrs. Taxsale on the other avenue, so hospitality alone won’t fill the bill. A caterer must mince this dinner. Mr. Moor Gage must perspire later on, but now is feeding time. At much expense the food is arranged for. At more expense virgin dresses must be gotten together, if all hands stitch and try on till the hour the dinner comes. When they are gone, feeders and fed draw one breath of content. “It’s all over.” Or, is it a reception. The hospitality is all in the front of the house. That’s where the receiving party are. But the procession doesn’t linger there. It moves rearward. The animals are to be fed. If one doubts the sincerity of this movement let him recall the comments of those who “couldn’t get to the dining room” at the last distribution of eatables. Of course when Mrs. Taxsale opens her larder to her friends she will have a little better “stuff”—they really do call it by that name in competent society—and so the auction goes on. Sometimes card parties and other social efforts not primarily connected with digestion get mixed up with catering. The result is usually disastrous. Bidding gets too high for some of the members. The bargain day pace is too fast. There ends the card club. There are persons, here and there, who think there is something finer than feeding in courtesy. They are Philistines. They object to materialism, even when it swamps only the things of this world. It is also reported, on somewhat vague evidence, that refined literary people are not so given to feeding as the common folks of Mr. Du Maurier’s world. It is to bear a suggestion to these that this is written. Literary persons being functionally the makers of custom have a great glory within easy reach. Let them crystallize their scattered atoms of protest in an Anti Free Lunch League. It may take some self denial, but there is the compensating pleasure of mutual admiration when they gather at a call like this: