Half through the evening, and by accident, I
discovered my mistake, but judged it too late to say anything then.
I met a couple of people I knew, had a little supper with them, and
came away. The next afternoon I met my right hostess--the lady who
should have been my hostess. She thanked me effusively for having
sacrificed the previous evening to her and her friends; she said she
knew how seldom I went out: that made her feel my kindness all the
more. She told me that the Brazilian Minister's wife had told her
that I was the cleverest man she had ever met. I often think I
should like to meet that man, whoever he may be, and thank him.
"But perhaps the butler does pronounce my name rightly, and perhaps
my hostess actually does recognize me. She smiles, and says she was
so afraid I was not coming. She implies that all the other guests
are but as a feather in her scales of joy compared with myself. I
smile in return, wondering to myself how I look when I do smile. I
have never had the courage to face my own smile in the
looking-glass. I notice the Society smile of other men, and it is
not reassuring. I murmur something about my not having been likely
to forget this evening; in my turn, seeking to imply that I have
been looking forward to it for weeks.
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