Your
house might be decorated like a Russian palace, blazing with the most
brilliant lights and breathing the richest odours; you might have
Jullien presiding over your orchestra, and a banquet worthy of the
Romans. As for your friends, they might dance until daybreak, and agree
that there never was an entertainment more tasteful, more sumptuous,
and, what would seem of the first importance, more merry. But, having
all these things, suppose you have not a list? You have given a ball,
you have not a list. The reason is obvious: you are ashamed of your
guests. You are not in 'society.'
But even a list is not sufficient for success. You must also get a
day: the most difficult thing in the world. After inquiring among your
friends, and studying the columns of the _Morning Post_, you discover
that, five weeks hence, a day is disengaged. You send out your cards;
your house is dismantled; your lights are arranged; the American plants
have arrived; the band, perhaps two bands, are engaged. Mr. Gunter has
half dressed your supper, and made all your ice, when suddenly, within
eight-and-forty hours of the festival which you have been five weeks
preparing, the Marchioness of Deloraine sends out cards for a ball in
honour of some European sovereign who has just alighted on our isle, and
means to stay only a week, and at whose court, twenty years ago, Lord
Deloraine was ambassador.
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