doubt can be entertained. As he ties his neckcloth
and slips on his coat, he puts on a kind of
armour which we of this period wear when we
enter the social lists.

There is a certain apartment called a tea-
room, to which men who are troubled with
some small amount of modesty and nervousness
resort before they ascend the stairs which lead
to the great field of battle. In this tea-room
they pause awhile to get their forces in order.
Here, one man calls to his aid every encouraging
thought he is able to summon, and then, leaving
his untasted tea on the table, makes for the
great staircase, and dashes desperately into the
scene of action. He sees, among a little crowd
of persons on the landing-place, Unprospero—
sees him by some process of clairvoyance, for
he does not look at him. He looks on over
people's heads into the rooms within, straining
to catch sight of some one worth talking to. He
has begun this already, and this will go on the
whole evening. Everybody is on tenter-hooks,
everybody is either a small person looking out
for a great person to tack himself on to, or a
great person looking out for somebody still
greater with whom he feels he ought to
foregather rather than with the individual who has
possession of him. Is not this the history of
an "at home?" No one is attentive, every one
is, as they say on the stage, "looking off."

About the door-way there are many snares set
for our Rising Man. The Unprospero family
muster strong there, ready for a pounce; but a man
of social resources can push on. He can pretend
to see some one in the distance who is making
signs to him to draw near, or he can simply
abstain from answering what that particular
member of the Unprospero race may say to him.
Onward goes the Rising Man. Here, is
somebody worth a word, but unfortunately he is
engaged in what he evidently finds an interesting
conversation, and has only a nod for the Rising
Man, who next makes up to the lady of the
house, and then to one of the Miss Prosperos,
whose ear he manages to get half-possession of,
for a few seconds. The Rising Man exerts himself,
for it is well that he ought to be seen engaged
in conversation with this young lady, but it is
his turn to be punished now. Miss Prospero
cannot or will not attend. She, too, is "looking
off," and when our worthy says what he thinks a
good thing, she does not smile, but answers all
at cross purposes, and presently actually
addresses a tall young man who is standing near,
even while our friend is in the act of speaking.
The Rising Man feels a warm glow of fury, but,
looking at the gentleman for whom Miss Prospero
has deserted him, is not surprised, for he is
one of those who has not got to rise at all, but
who is born, if one may be allowed the expression,
ready made.

Of all the many heart-breaking small things
which one sees in the small world, surely the
most discouraging is the desperate sophistication
and want of freshness which characterise young
ladies. To see such calculating powers in those
who are young is something astonishing and
deplorable. As they enter the gates of society
the porter must hand them the fruit of knowledge
surely. In a fortnight they know everything.
They know whom to encourage and whom
to slight, the exact share of attention to mete
out to this and to them, they take a man's
measure with the cold eyes of an appraiser, and
weigh him in the scales of the world's approval
before they listen to a word he has to say.

In "the room full of people" where we are
making these observations, there are many
opportunities of noting the great worldliness of
quite young women. We have seen Miss Prospero
cutting a Rising Man for a Risen Man, and
a very little further off we find Miss Miranda
Prospero flattering an elderly man of hateful
appearance and feeble mind, who is one of the
richest noblemen in the land, and still single.
This love-chase on Miranda's part has been going
on a long time, and is well understood "in,
society." It is probable that the pursuit will
be rewarded with success; for the young lady's
flatteries are agreeable to this worn-out man.
Those flatteries are artfully administered, and
great effort and pains this young girl gives to
hold the ground she has gained, and even to get
a surer footing; but one thing she cannot do:
—she cannot keep her eyes in, order. There is a
good-looking fellow lounging on a sofa hard by,
and carrying on a great flirtation with a married
friend of Miss Miranda, and, from this pair, she
finds it difficult to look away.

Why is it not distinctly understood among us
that it is impossible for any human being to
attend to two conversations at once? It is
better not to try, for no good can come of it.
Long practice may have made you very adroit at
this pastime of riding two conversational horses
at once, but, clever at it, or stupid at it, you will
be found out. You think you can manage this
feat perfectly. You imagine that you can absent
yourself mentally from your companion for a
short time, and then come back to him
undiscovered. You think you can dive down to the
other end of the table for a minute and a half, and
then return to the surface again without having
been missed. Not you! Your neighbour looks
round while your attention is thus absent without
leave, and he observes the blank, and makes
his comments on it. No doubt it is a painful
thing if your name is Jones, and you have just
brought out a highly successful drama, to hear
somebody within your hearing commenting upon
the incidents and plots of "Mr. Jones's Play,"
and yet to compel yourself to give the whole of
your attention to the lady next you, who is
informing you that Lady Diana Horseflesh has
determined this season that all the riding in the
Park must and shall be done in the afternoon
instead of the morning. It is not for a moment
to be denied that this is hard, but it must be
borne; and even when the conversation has
turned on the faults of "Mr. Jones's Play," and
you have the chance of hearing it abused, you
must still be resolute, and deny yourself the
exquisite pleasure of hearing yourself attacked
—and defended.