A few men shine at this sort
of thing, but they are a small percentage, and without conceit I
regard myself as no bigger a fool than the average male. Not
knowing what else to say, I tell her also that it is a warm evening.
She smiles archly as though there were some hidden witticism in the
remark, and I drift away, feeling ashamed of myself. To talk as an
idiot when you ARE an idiot brings no discomfort; to behave as an
idiot when you have sufficient sense to know it, is painful. I hide
myself in the crowd, and perhaps I'll meet a woman I was introduced
to three weeks ago at a picture gallery. We don't know each other's
names, but, both of us feeling lonesome, we converse, as it is
called. If she be the ordinary type of woman, she asks me if I am
going on to the Johnsons'. I tell her no. We stand silent for a
moment, both thinking what next to say. She asks me if I was at the
Thompsons' the day before yesterday. I again tell her no. I begin
to feel dissatisfied with myself that I was not at the Thompsons'.
Trying to get even with her, I ask her if she is going to the
Browns' next Monday. (There are no Browns, she will have to say,
No.) She is not, and her tone suggests that a social stigma rests
upon the Browns.
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