We are still in our "room full of people."
As our Rising Man slides along it, looking from
right to left out of the corners of his eyes, so as
to see at some distance the people he is not to
see, and be able to give them a wide berth—as
he pursues this dexterous course, he takes note
from time to time of the hideous position of
those unhappy persons, some of whom are to be
found in all great assemblies, who know nobody.
A contemptuous shudder passes through his
frame as he notices those poor devils. And
pitiable their situation really is. There are a
brother and sister transplanted out of an entirely
different world, to whom an invitation has been
sent, because the lady of the house wishes to
show them "some attention." What an attention!
What an evening's pleasure! The card
of invitation to this "at home," has been in the
chimney-glass of these worthy people, who live
and keep house together, for the last three
weeks. Their very marrow has congealed in
their bones with awe, as sitting in front of the
fire the last thing before parting for the night,
they have talked this thing over, and commented
on the appalling fact that they were not even
invited until half-past ten. It has taken a week
of such evening séances to enable them even to
answer that invitation, for in it Mrs. Prospero
has requested "the honour" of Mr. and Miss
Smalley's company, and this they are not used to,
having only hitherto in their own immediate
circle had the "pleasure" of their company
solicited. How is this word honour to be dealt
with? Shall they reply that they "will have
the honour of accepting?" No, Mr. Smalley,
who has an accurate soul, and a fastidious taste,
informs his sister that it would be ungrammatical
to express themselves as accepting in the
future tense, because they do then and there
and in that letter accept Mrs. Prospero's invitation.
He thinks they had better stick to their
accustomed form of words, and state that they
"have great pleasure in accepting Mrs. P.'s
kind invitation;" but when this has been written
out, these two babes in the wood do not like
the look of it, and go to work again. Miss
Smalley asks whether they might not say that
they will have the honour of availing themselves;
but Mr. Smalley, the fastidious, thinks this
sounds like clutching at the thing too much,
and as to Miss Smalley's last suggestion, that
perhaps they had better "have the honour of
waiting upon Mrs. Prospero," he will not hear
of that on any terms. At last they get desperate,
and a letter is committed to the care of
the post-office, in which it is stated that Mr. and
Miss Smalley "are honoured in accepting the
obliging invitation of Mrs. Prospero." When
that note has been irrevocably committed to the
pillar-post, they feel that their prospects are
blighted for ever, and would sacrifice unheard-of
sums to be able to get it back again.

And all this agony, all Miss Smalley's tortures
in choosing a new dress, all her doubts
about the way in which it should be trimmed,
all her misgivings about her hair—what has
come of this suffering? What has come of Mr.
Smalley's purchase of a new coat, something
long in the sleeves and short in the skirts, of a
new white cravat, of dazzling gloves? Nothing.
An evening of discomfort. The early part of it
spent in waiting and waiting till it should get to
be time to go; the latter part of it in leaning
up against a wall and being entirely neglected.
As our Rising Man passes this worthy couple,
he says to himself, "Now what can make people
of that sort come out, I wonder!" At last the
Smalleys go down to the refreshment-room
together, and, as they consume an ice apiece, and
scatter wafers o'er a smiling land in the attempt
to eat them, they talk quite strangely and politely
to each other, as if they were only slightly
acquainted. They go home at last, and it is over.

There are many mysterious and unaccountable
people who manage to glide into the best
regulated and most select "at homes." The
chief characteristic of all of them is, that they
have nobody to talk to, and are shy of each
other: engaging rarely, and only when desperate,
in conversation among themselves. It is
possible that to this mysterious class belong
some of those distinguished ladies who advertise
in the newspapers that they have opportunities
of introducing into good society ladies who are
desirous of mingling therein. These social
pariahs drift into corners, and obstruct doorways,
and smile as if they were enjoying themselves;
but our Rising Man knows better than
to have anything to say to them, though some of
them who knew him when he was lower down
in the social scale, make desperate efforts to
catch that evasive eye of his, with which he
looks over them, and through them to something
else behind, and alongside them, and round them,
in the most distracting way imaginable.

Is there no more pleasant view of "a room
full of people" to be taken than this? Nay,
that would be a sad creed, if we were compelled
to take up with it. Happily we are not. There
are people whom "society" cannot spoil, and
there are some whom it only spoils temporarily.
The young days of these last are their worst
days. As they get older, they get wiser and
better. And those whom society does really
spoil, or whom, at any rate, it has the credit of
spoiling, is it really to blame for their bad
qualities?" No. It develops, perhaps, a little sooner,
qualities they would have displayed any way.
They would most likely have been bad, cold,
selfish under any circumstances. What sort of
a boy was that same Rising Man? I knew
him at school, and we used to be sworn allies,
great chums and playfellows. But at the
beginning of one "half," there came up to our
seminary two sons of a wealthy neighbour of my
friend's father: disagreeable boys enough, in no
way, though I say it, more eligible playfellows
than I was; yet I was from that time deserted,
gradually let down, and there was an end to my
intimacy with my friend. To adopt such ways
is entirely foreign to the nature of some people.
They enter the world. They try it. They are
caught for a time by the glitter and the excitement,
and determine to be distinguished among