FullReads

“Charmed. Very hot weather we’ve been having of late–I mean cold. Let me see, I did not quite catch your name just now. Thank you so much. Yes, it is a bit close.” And a silence falls, neither of us being able to think what next to say.

What has happened is this: My host has met me in the doorway, and shaken me heartily by the hand.

“So glad you were able to come,” he has said. “Some friends of mine here, very anxious to meet you.” He has bustled me across the room. “Delightful people. You’ll like them–have read all your books.”

He has brought me up to a stately lady, and has presented me. We have exchanged the customary commonplaces, and she, I feel, is waiting for me to say something clever, original and tactful. And I don’t know whether she is Presbyterian or Mormon; a Protectionist or a Free Trader; whether she is engaged to be married or has lately been divorced!

A friend of mine adopts the sensible plan of always providing you with a short history of the person to whom he is about to lead you.

“I want to introduce you to a Mrs. Jones,” he whispers. “Clever woman. Wrote a book two years ago. Forget the name of it. Something about twins. Keep away from sausages. Father ran a pork shop in the Borough. Husband on the Stock Exchange. Keep off coke. Unpleasantness about a company. You’ll get on best by sticking to the book. Lot in it about platonic friendship. Don’t seem to be looking too closely at her. Has a slight squint she tries to hide.”

By this time we have reached the lady, and he introduces me as a friend of his who is simply dying to know her.

“Wants to talk about your book,” he explains. “Disagrees with you entirely on the subject of platonic friendship. Sure you’ll be able to convince him.”

It saves us both a deal of trouble. I start at once on platonic friendship, and ask her questions about twins, avoiding sausages and coke. She thinks me an unusually interesting man, and I am less bored than otherwise I might be.

I have sometimes thought it would be a serviceable device if, in Society, we all of us wore a neat card–pinned, say, upon our back– setting forth such information as was necessary; our name legibly written, and how to be pronounced; our age (not necessarily in good faith, but for purposes of conversation. Once I seriously hurt a German lady by demanding of her information about the Franco-German war. She looked to me as if she could not object to being taken for forty. It turned out she was thirty-seven. Had I not been an Englishman I might have had to fight a duel); our religious and political beliefs; together with a list of the subjects we were most at home upon; and a few facts concerning our career–sufficient to save the stranger from, what is vulgarly termed “putting his foot in it.” Before making jokes about “Dumping,” or discussing the question of Chinese Cheap Labour, one would glance behind and note whether one’s companion was ticketed “Whole-hogger,” or “Pro-Boer.” Guests desirous of agreeable partners–an “agreeable person,” according to the late Lord Beaconsfield’s definition, being “a person who agrees with you”–could make their own selection.

“Excuse me. Would you mind turning round a minute? Ah, ‘Wagnerian Crank!’ I am afraid we should not get on together. I prefer the Italian school.”

Or, “How delightful. I see you don’t believe in vaccination. May I take you into supper?”

Those, on the other hand, fond of argument would choose a suitable opponent. A master of ceremonies might be provided who would stand in the centre of the room and call for partners: “Lady with strong views in favour of female franchise wishes to meet gentleman holding the opinions of St. Paul. With view to argument.”