"I can't abide them; they are as dull as the dropsy!" Many years ago in Paris, we used to call a certain hospitable lady's invitations "soup tickets," so little individuality did they possess.
The subtle laws of moral precedence are difficult reading for the most intelligent, and therefore remain sealed books to the afflicted mortals mentioned here. The delicate tact that, with no apparent effort, combines congenial elements into a delightful whole is lacking in their composition. The nice discrimination that presides over some households is replaced by a jovial indifference to other persons' feelings and prejudices.
The idea of placing pretty Miss Debutante next young Strongboys instead of giving her over into the clutches of old Mr. Boremore will never enter these obtuse entertainers' heads, any more than that of trying to keep poor, defenceless Mrs. Mouse out of young Tom Cat's claws.
It is useless to enumerate instances; people have suffered too severely at the hands of careless and incompetent hosts not to know pretty well what the title of this paper means. So many of us have come away from fruitless evenings, grinding our teeth, and vowing never to enter those doors again while life lasts, that the time seems ripe for a protest.
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