But when at last I met Charles Strickland, it was under circumstances which allowed me to do no more than just make his acquaintance. One morning Mrs. Strickland sent me round a note to say that she was giving a dinner-party that evening, and one of her guests had failed her. She asked me to stop the gap. She wrote:

 

"It's only decent to warn you that you will be bored to extinction¹. It was a thoroughly² dull party from the beginning, but if you will come I shall be uncommonly³ grateful. And you and I can have a little chat by ourselves."

 

It was only neighbourly to accept.

 

When Mrs. Strickland introduced me to her husband, he gave me a rather indifferent hand to shake. Turning to him gaily⁴, she attempted a small jest.

 

"I asked him to show him that I really had a husband. I think he was beginning to doubt it."

 

Strickland gave the polite little laugh with which people acknowledge a facetiousness⁵ in which they see nothing funny, but did not speak. New arrivals claimed my host's attention, and I was left to myself. When at last we were all assembled, waiting for dinner to be announced, I reflected, while I chatted with the woman I had been asked to "take in," that civilised man practises a strange ingenuity⁶ in wasting on tedious exercises the brief span of his life. It was the kind of party which makes you wonder why the hostess has troubled to bid her guests, and why the guests have troubled to come. There were ten people. They met with indifference⁷, and would part with relief. It was, of course, a purely⁸ social function. The Stricklands "owed" dinners to a number of persons, whom they took no interest in, and so had asked them; these persons had accepted. Why? To avoid the

分享到：