For a long time I didn’t think we’d go to the reception—but, finally I squared matters and told her to run on and get dressed. I read the evening paper until she started putting on her hat,—and then I started to get ready. After I was dressed and waiting about five minutes she said she was ready. So we started for the reception, she on her dignity and I on an empty stomach. And I might as well say right here, I took my empty stomach back home with me again, for all I saw there to eat was some opera-glass sandwiches—that is, you could look through them. With these they passed around lemonade, and after that was gobbled up by the hungry mob they flashed a box or two of bon-bons. Think of it—bon-bons on an empty stomach! If it wasn’t for fear of my wife being jealous I’d have gone to the kitchen and made a play for the cook. I never attended anything that I got so disgusted with in all my life. Did you ever have to go to one, fellows, with your wife? The women all sit around in bunches, and each bunch runs down the others. Mrs. Hypocrite will look up rather suddenly to see if she can discover anybody talking about her, and she notices that Mrs. Stabyouinthe Back is gazing fixedly at her; then, each seeing that they are caught, smile sweetly, bow to each other and go back to knocking. How can they do it, girls? How can they do it? Each woman there knew, deep down in her heart, that every woman three feet away was talking about her! If it wasn’t about her hat being one of last season’s styles it was about the way her dress was made; and if both of these happened to be above criticism then they would say: “O, pshaw! what good is all that finery to her? It doesn’t become her! It would be just the same if she had a Worth gown on, and the hat—well, she could put on picture-hats from all the picture-books published and it wouldn’t make her look dressed! Why, she can look well with nothing on!” As though that woman would go to a reception with nothing on! But the part that takes my time is that after all their knocking they stand in the hall when it’s time to go home, and, with the door open until everybody in the house is chilled to death, they have three or four rounds of kisses, tell what a delightful time they have had and invite each other to come and see them! Henceforth I scratch receptions off my list. Nothing but a stag goes with me any more. There was one poor fellow there that I took quite a fancy to—he was holding up the wall opposite to me. After a bit I went over and spoke to him. “How are you getting on?” I asked. “O, I’m holding up all right,” he said—I didn’t know whether he meant the wall or his spirits.