rules hold good in England," said I. My
friend went on: "She should never be
prominent in anything; she should keep
silence as long as any one else will talk; but
when conversation flags, she should throw
herself into the breach with the same spirit
with which I notice that the young ladies of
the house, where a ball is given, stand quietly
by till the dancers are tired, and then spring
into the arena to carry on the spirit and the
music till the others are ready to begin
again."

"But," said the French gentleman, "even
at this time, when subjects for conversation
are wanted, she should rather suggest than
enlarge—ask questions rather than give her
own opinions."

"To be sure," said the lady. "Madame
Recamier, whose salons were the most perfect
of this century, always withheld her opinions
on books, or men, or measures, until all
around her had given theirs; then she, as it
were, collected and harmonised them, saying
a kind thing here, and a gentle thing there,
and speaking ever with her own quiet sense,
till people the most opposed learnt to
understand each other's point of view, which it is
a great thing for opponents to do."

"Then the number of the people whom
you receive, is another consideration. I
should say not less than twelve, nor more
than twenty," continued the gentleman.
"The evenings should be appointed—say
weekly,—fortnightly at the beginning of
January, which is our season. Fix an early
hour for opening the room. People are
caught then in their freshness, before they
become exhausted by other parties."

The lady spoke: "For my part, I prefer
catching my friends after they have left the
grander balls or receptions. One hears then
the remarks, the wit, the reason, and the
satire which they had been storing up during
their evening of imposed silence, or of
ceremonious speaking."

"A little good-humoured satire is a very
agreeable sauce," replied the gentleman,
"but it must be good-humoured, and the
listeners must be good-humoured; above all,
the conversation must be general, and not the
chat, chat, chat up in a corner, by which the
English so often distinguish themselves. You
do not go into society to exchange secrets
with your intimate friends; you go to
render yourselves agreeable to every one
present, and to help all to pass a happy
evening."

"Strangers should not be admitted," said
the lady, taking up the strain. "They
would not start fair with the others; they
would be ignorant of the allusions that
refer to conversations on the previous evenings;
they would not understand the—what
shall I call it—slang? I mean those expressions
having relation to past occurrences, or
by gone witticisms common to all those who
are in the habit of meeting.

"Madame de Duras and Madame Recamier
never made advances to any stranger.
Their saloons were the best that Paris
has known in this generation. All who
wished to be admitted, had to wait and prove
their fitness by being agreeable elsewhere;
to earn their diploma, as it were, among the
circles of these ladies' acquaintances; and,
at last, it was a high favour to be received
by them."

"They missed the society of many
celebrities by adhering so strictly to this unspoken
rule," said the gentleman.

"Bah!" said the lady. "Celebrities! what
has one to do with them in society? As
celebrities, they are simply bores. Because
a man has discovered a planet, it does not
follow that he can converse agreeably, even
on his own subjects; often people are drained
dry by one action or expression of their
lives—drained dry for all the purposes of a
'salon.' The writer of books, for instance,
cannot afford to talk twenty pages for
nothing, so he is either profoundly silent, or
else he gives you the mere rincings of his
mind. I am speaking now of him as a mere
celebrity, and justifying the wisdom of the
ladies we were speaking of, in not seeking
after such people; indeed, in being rather shy
of them. Some of their friends were the most
celebrated people of their day, but they were
received in their old capacity of agreeable
men; a higher character, by far. Then,"
said she, turning to me, "I believe that you
English spoil the perfection of conversation
by having your rooms as brilliantly lighted
for an evening the charm of which depends
on what one hears, as for an evening when
youth and beauty are to display themselves
among flowers and festoons, and every kind
of pretty ornament. I would never have a
room affect people as being dark on their
first entrance into it; but there is a kind of
moonlight as compared to sunlight, in which
people talk more freely and naturally; where
shy people will enter upon a conversation
without a dread of every change of colour or
involuntary movement being seen—just as
we are always more confidential over a fire
than anywhere else as women talk most
openly in the dimly-lighted bedroom at curling-
time."

"Away with your shy people," said the
gentleman. "Persons who are self-conscious,
thinking of an involuntary redness or paleness,
an unbecoming movement of the countenance,
more than the subject of which they
are talking, should not go into society at all.
But, because women are so much more liable
to this nervous weakness than men, the
preponderance of people in a salon should always
be on the side of the men."

I do not think I gained more hints as to
the lost art from my French friends. Let us
see if my own experience in England can
furnish any more ideas.

First, let us take the preparations to be