Part 2
In England the matter of precedence at dinners is simplicity itself. The Sovereign precedes an ambassador, who precedes the Archbishop of Canterbury, who precedes the Earl Marshal, who precedes a duke, who precedes an earl, a marquis, a viscount, a bishop, a baron, etc.; but in America the matter is a much more perplexing one.
The author of this _brochure_ respectfully suggests the following scheme of American dinner precedence: Let an opera box count 6 points; steam yacht, 5; town house, 5; country house, 4; motors, 3 each; every million dollars, 2; tiara, 1; good wine cellar, 1; ballroom in town house, 1; a known grandparent of either sex, ½; culture, ⅛. By this system, a woman of culture with four known grandparents and a million dollars will have a total of 4⅛. She will, of course, be forced to follow in the wake of a lady with a town house and a tiara (6); who, in turn, will trail after a woman with a steam yacht and two motors (11). The highest known total is about 100; the lowest, about ⅛. The housekeeper may arrange the totals, and the hostess can then send the guests in according to their listed quotations.
* * * * *
People who arrive late at a large dinner sometimes have very quaint and amusing excuses. A hostess at a recent eight-o’clock banquet collected the following gems:
I overslept in my bath.
A cinder lodged in my eye and I have just come from the chemist’s.
My maid is ill and I was forced to hook myself.
The twins put crumbs in my stockings.
I read your invitation upside down and, naturally, mistook the hour of dinner.
I never eat soup, and thought, of course, you wouldn’t wait.
I knew Mrs. V—t would be _much_ later than I—so I took a chance.
I was taking my memory lesson, and it was all so absorbing that I completely forgot the dinner.
I lost your note, and, as _everybody_ dines at 8.30, I thought, of course, that _you_ would.
My chauffeur was so drunk that he took me next door by mistake, and delayed me fearfully.
* * * * *
Every year it is becoming more and more difficult for hostesses to secure a sufficient number of blades for their dinners and evening routs. “Odd men” are always in tremendous demand.
The custom of shouting names, which is imperfectly followed at the hotels, should be perfected in our clubs, and we hope soon to see the club waiters wandering about the halls and lounging rooms shouting out, as they go: “Mrs. Vanderlip, four odd men for dinner.” “Mrs. Miles, two bachelors for the opera.” “Mrs. Nestor, one married couple for bridge,” etc.
* * * * *
When a lady beside you is so generously avoirdupoised or embonpointed that it is a physical impossibility for her to see the food upon her plate, it is sometimes an act of kindness to inform her as to the nature of the bird or beast so hopelessly removed from her vision. This saves her the trouble of lifting it above the horizon in order to discover its exact species.
* * * * *
A clever hostess in New York has recently trained a highly intelligent dachshund to fly about after dinner, under the banquet table, and fetch out the long white gloves, make-up boxes, scarves, and lace handkerchiefs. Most hostesses, however, prefer to put their guests on the scent and let them retrieve the hidden treasures.
* * * * *
A frantic hostess recently telephoned us for advice on a nice point of social etiquette. She had arranged a dinner of twelve, and was confronted and confounded, at the last moment, by an “odd” bachelor whom she had originally invited and subsequently forgotten. She could not sit down thirteen at the table.
“What shall I do?” she asked.
We were glad to be able to come to the distressed lady’s assistance and telephoned her as follows:
“You should hand him a neatly folded dollar bill and ask him to slip out quietly and buy himself a good dinner at a corner restaurant. Your butler may also give him a cigar as he passes into the night.”
* * * * *
If you are giving a supper after the play, it is _de rigueur_ to order grape fruit, hot bouillon, champagne, birds, a salad, and a sweet. The sated guests will not touch any of the food, but it is _comme il faut_ to put it all before them.
* * * * *
Banting has almost done away with the ancient custom of eating, but thyroid tablets and lemon juice are, of course, permitted. At a ladies’ lunch the guests (whether ladies, millionairesses, or workingwomen) should be careful disdainfully to dismiss the dainty dishes until the repast is over, when they should look benignly at the hostess and murmur:
“Dear Mrs. Brown—_might_ I have a cup of very hot water?”
* * * * *
When a lady must pay back forty dinner obligations and her dining room will seat only twenty, it is obvious that she must have two dinners of twenty each. She should give the feasts on successive evenings, as the left-over flowers, bonbons, fruits, and _pâtés_ will always do service at the second repast.
* * * * *
A lady should be careful not to turn to the gentleman beside her and complain of the “fizz.” There is always a good chance that he is the wine agent.
* * * * *
When, in New York, a married couple do not pull along together, and have definitely decided to divorce or separate, it is customary for them once or twice to dine, _tête-à-tête_, at Sherry’s: to flirt, laugh, and make merry with each other—in order to put the eager hounds off the scent.
* * * * *
At dinners in the _beau monde_ the footmen will invariably pounce upon your plate and run off with it before you have half finished the course. Be careful not to hold on to it like a despairing mother whose child is being torn from her arms, as such scenes at table are always deplorable and harassing.
* * * * *
In purchasing almond bonbons for the dinner table the hostess should make sure to select the mauve species. No one ever eats them. A dishful of the white variety will sometimes vanish in a night, but the mauve go on forever.
DANCES
DANCES
In New York the word “ball” is intended to signify a hundred or so people who do not care particularly for dancing, who are prostrated by the prospect of arising early on the following morning, and who leave their cotillion favors untouched and disregarded upon the gilt chairs in the ballroom.
The chief characteristics of a ball may be summed up, briefly, as follows: Mothers, or “benchwomen,” wildly eying their offspring; the “leader,” battered and bruised like a half-back in a football game; the hostess, with her tiara aslant on her new false curls; fifty wilted linen collars; fifty ditto shirts; four red-faced gentlemen asleep in the smoking room; the host leaping from train to train with the agility of a brakeman; two hundred yards of chiffon ruffles and one pound of assorted hairpins decorating the floor of the ballroom; a deep crowd of so-called dancing men who effectually block the entrance door and stand in a dazed and awkward group, spellbound by the horrors of the scene.
* * * * *
The valuable checks for cotillion seats are usually cornered by the cotillion leader and dealt out to the most prominent tiaras. The unhappy ladies who fail to receive one of these priceless tokens usually pass the remainder of the evening in the ultimate row of chairs wearing a granite smile and a paper cotillion favor.
* * * * *
A wall flower is a young lady at a dance who has not been cursed with the fatal gift. She may usually be distinguished by her wild and beseeching glances. Chloroform is the only possible way of securing a partner for her.
* * * * *
Before putting your arm around a lady’s waist, you should explain to her that it is your intention to dance. As the music starts, look at her longingly and murmur one of the following remarks: “Do you Boston?” “Rotten floor” (or) “Bully floor.” “Bully favors” (or) “Rotten favors.”
* * * * *
Every now and then a “stand-up” supper is served at a dance. This is the abomination of desolation spoken of by the prophet Daniel. Should a lady ask you at such an entertainment to get her some supper, push your way through the mob of angry bachelors to the trough where the comestibles are displayed. Once arrived on the scene of carnage, you can consume a cup of bouillon, a few oysters, some sandwiches, a little chicken, some dry champagne, a plate of salad, an ice, and a cup of coffee. After this, if your hunger has been satisfied, take a morsel of _galantine_, a doily, and a lady-finger, place them on a plate and force yourself through the compact lines of angry, feeding, perspiring “dancing men,” until you appear before your fair partner, declaring that you did your best, and that the rest of the provisions had disappeared. While she is thanking you, slip away to the smoking room and send the man in attendance there for a bottle of some very, very old champagne. While he is gone you may busy yourself by selecting a few of the best cigars, so as to be sure to have something to smoke on the way home—in somebody’s cab.
* * * * *
In giving a dance, avoid, _if possible_, sending invitations to bores—they come without them.
* * * * *
At a dance, when a lady is talking to a millionaire recently arrived from the West, he may offer to introduce his wife. (This is part of what, in sporting circles, is known as the “push stroke.”) In such a fix it is permissible for her to burst into a loud fit of coughing, mention her weak heart, and ask a footman to call her carriage.
* * * * *
When a bachelor arrives at a dance, he should at once repair to the smoking room and remain there most of the evening—calling loudly for all those wines which his host has neglected to provide.
* * * * *
A new and unspeakable horror has lately been introduced into fashionable dances in New York—namely, the “third supper.” The writer is glad to say that the inventor of this atrocity died very slowly and in great pain about a year ago. It is a comfort to know that his last resting place is unadorned by any monument, and that no flowers or shrubs have ever bloomed upon his grave.
* * * * *
A popular form of entertainment for grown-up persons in New York is a “baby party.” Here the guests are dressed like babies: they dance and have supper, and are permitted to behave like little children. These revels do not differ from other forms of social festivities in the metropolis—except as regards the costumes.
* * * * *
Dancing men should have a care, at a ball, never to be “stuck.” This catastrophe is usually brought about by listening to the wiles of a man who begins with some such remark as “Do you know Miss A——? She is crazy to meet you!” or “For Heaven’s sake, dear boy, _do_ go and talk to that unfortunate girl in yellow.”
Many an agonized hour may be avoided by turning a deaf ear to all such entreaties. If you don’t, the horror of your ultimate predicament can hardly be exaggerated. You will sit with her for hours in isolated agony. Slowly your hair will turn as white as the driven snow. Interminable cycles of time will tick themselves away, while you sit there slyly beckoning to other gentlemen who are certain to pay no heed to your signals.
A case is on record, in England, where a gentleman, in such a position, addressed no remark to his partner for upward of three hours. At this point she became aweary, turned, and found that he was—dead!
* * * * *
A very neat trick can sometimes be worked at a dance. You have steadily avoided a particularly dreadful damsel throughout the entire evening. When she has put on her cloak and fur overshoes, and you see her hurrying through the hall with her maid, on her way to her carriage, jump out of the smoking room and say:
“What? Home so early! Can’t you stay and have _just_ one with me?”
Be careful, of course, not to be too urgent, else she may stay, thus hoisting you on your own petard.
* * * * *
In dancing, unless you are an accomplished waltzer, the safest advice to follow is: “Avoid the corners and keep kicking.”
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Hostess_]
* * * * *
At a large ball, the hostess, when tired, may, with perfect safety, go to her sleeping apartment and retire for an hour or two. No one will ever miss her. When rested she can reappear in the ballroom and, with her second wind, as it were, enjoy the third supper, or the first breakfast.
* * * * *
In saying good night to the hostess, have a care to bestow your avowals of obligation in nearly the same degree of warmth or formality that her bearing invites. If, for instance, she be asleep in the conservatory, all among the begonias, it is not necessary to shake her or rouse her by shouting: “Hi! Wake up, I want to go home,” etc. Simply pass out noiselessly and remind her butler to call her in time for breakfast. (See the illustration, “Hostess.”)
BRIDGE
BRIDGE
This is a popular pastime, and much of the attention of our best minds in high society is concentrated upon guessing whether a given card is in the hand of the person on the right or on the left.
As there is a great curiosity among all classes of readers concerning bridge, the benevolent author has gone into the etiquette of the game with a good deal of thoroughness.
* * * * *
In order to be an accomplished bridge player one must possess the following attributes:
A dress suit. (This does not apply to ladies.)
A large roll of clean bills with a rubber band encircling them.
A cigarette and ash tray.
A stoical, blond and unimpassioned nature.
A partner—usually of the opposite sex.
* * * * *
You may, with safety, criticise nearly every play your fair partner makes. She doubtless deserves it, but, as a rule, this criticism should not extend beyond her faults _as a player_. Try to remember that a gentleman is one who never unintentionally insults anybody.
* * * * *
Bridge should never be played seriously. One should carry on an animated conversation during the course of play. It is customary, too, to hold the cards in one hand and a hot buttered muffin in the other. Get up from the table rather frequently and telephone, receive visitors, give orders to the servants, and pour tea. The questions, “Who led?” “What are trumps?” “Is that our trick?” etc., are always permissible, and lend some spirit to what might otherwise prove a dull and taxing game.
* * * * *
In playing bridge with two ladies, a man should be careful to play “highest man and highest woman.” In this way he will be playing against a man, and his chances of a “settlement” will be a little less remote. Never play with three ladies.
* * * * *
When you are dummy and your partner has finished playing the hand, you should invariably glare at her (or him) and make one of the following remarks:
You played it the only way to lose the odd!
Why, in Heaven’s name, didn’t you get out the trumps?
You must lose a pot of money at this game, don’t you?
It’s lucky I’m not playing ten-cent points.
Why not take your finesse the other way?
The eight of clubs was good, you know!
Yes, if you had played your ace of diamonds we would have saved it.
It’s a pity you didn’t open the hearts.
* * * * *
As the leaders of the Smart Set have ceased occupying their brains with literature, music, politics, and art—subjects which were, a long time ago, discussed in our best society—and as their entire mental activities are now focused upon the game of bridge, the author has added for the further benefit of his readers a series of anecdotes, maxims, and experiences which he has gathered during his fruitless attempts to master this fashionable pastime.
* * * * *
There was a lady in the _beau monde_ of New York who was not only a charming woman but an accomplished whist player. Unfortunately, however, she simply _could_ not play fair. Among other idiosyncrasies she had a distressing habit of slipping a high card on the bottom of the pack, after the cut—this was in the days when she played old-fashioned whist. In this way she was always certain of the ace, king, or queen of trumps when it was her turn to deal. She was detected in this graceful little artifice on one or two occasions, with the result that her reputation suffered a slight dimming in its glory.
A few months ago the poor lady died and a well-known bridge wag in New York composed for her the following epitaph:
“Here lies Lily Maltravers, In confident expectation of The last trump.”
* * * * *
A delightful bridge player is Mrs. R. U. Rich, who, though stone deaf, still manages to understand the declarations, or makes, by an elaborate series of manual signs. In playing with her, if the make is a heart, you must point to your heart; diamonds, to your ring; spades, you must make a shovel of your hand, and, when clubs have been declared, you must shake your fist at her. The other evening at a fashionable house in New York she was playing a rubber in which her husband was her partner. It was after a large dinner and, Mrs. Rich, having mistaken her husband’s signal, excitedly asked him what trump had been declared. At this, her better half shook his fist at her two or three times in a very convincing way. An elderly lady, on the other side of the room, unaware of Mrs. Rich’s infirmity, gathered her dress about her and, with great dignity, begged the host to send for her carriage.
“Why, Mrs. ——,” he said, “are you leaving us so early?”
“Well,” said the lady of the old school, “I think that when a husband and wife come to blows over the bridge table it is time to call the carriages.”
* * * * *
A reduced gentlewoman, living in a small way in the suburbs, was at an employment agency trying to secure a cook. As the lady and her husband lived some distance from any neighbor, and as the wages she could afford to pay were meager, the cooks displayed a decided unwillingness to assume the cares of office.
Finally, to the great elation of the lady, a very respectable and well-mannered English girl seemed disposed to risk the rigors of suburban life. The searching questions which the girl had put to the lady had been satisfactorily answered, when, at the very last, she asked the number in the family, to which the lady replied that there were only two—herself and her husband.
“Oh!” said the girl, “I could not _think_ of going into service with only three in the house. I would not work _anywhere_ unless we could make up a four at bridge.”
* * * * *
Husbands and wives should never play partners at bridge. They are almost certain to quarrel, which is unseemly—and if they _don’t_ quarrel, their friends are sure to suspect them of collusion and cheating.
* * * * *
It is a mistake for parents to play bridge on Sunday. The morals of children should ever be sacred in a parent’s eye. Never, therefore, allow a card to be touched on the Sabbath—until the children have gone to bed.
* * * * *
An inveterate bridge fiend recently proposed to a lady of some means. She, doubting his entire sincerity, mentioned his too great devotion to bridge. With a fine show of enthusiasm and erudition he burst out with:
“I could not love thee, dear, so much, Loved I not honors more.”
* * * * *
There is always a great deal of discussion among good bridge players as to the propriety of an original club make—with no score. As a matter of fact, a big club hand is usually disastrous whether you make it or pass it. You either leave it and get spades, or else you _don’t_ leave it and get the devil.
* * * * *
There is a lady in New York society who is as devoted to bridge as one could well be. She makes everything, except her two children, subservient to the game. She attends bridge classes, bridge teas, and bridge tournaments without end. She is, unfortunately, married to a wealthy but worthless and rascally young clubman who treats her usually with indifference, but sometimes with cruelty.
Her friends all advised her to sue for a divorce.
The poor woman was in some doubt as to what course to pursue. Finally, a brilliant idea occurred to her. She would consult her bridge teacher! He was the one man in all the world whose judgment seemed to her infallible. She trusted him more than she did her lawyer or her minister. He had solved so many difficult problems for her that he might solve this.
Mr. Elstreet was accordingly written to by the unhappy lady. His answer ran as follows:
MY DEAR MRS. ——:
I have very carefully thought over the little problem which you were good enough to submit to me for solution. It seems to me that when you have a knave alone, it is often a wise plan to discard him, but holding, as you do, a knave and two little ones, it would seem the better part of discretion not to discard him.
I am, my dear Mrs. ——, yours, etc.
* * * * *
A well-known widow in London was a guest at a large house party. She was an enthusiastic bridger. She took the game very seriously—so seriously that she frequently dreamed about it, and even, her maid declared, talked about it in her sleep.
Everybody had been playing fairly late and the ladies had gone to their rooms and “turned in” at about twelve o’clock. The men had played until about two. Shortly after this, the housekeeper, in making her final round of the house, was startled to hear the widow’s voice addressing somebody in an agonized and supplicating way.
As the door of the widow’s room was ajar, the housekeeper paused in some alarm, only to hear her call out: “My diamonds, my diamonds, why didn’t I protect them? I am lost, absolutely lost!”