The next step is the laying of the covers; a cover signifying the place prepared for one person. For a dinner in courses a cover consists of a small plate (on which to set the oyster plate), two large knives, three large forks (for the roast, the game, and entrees), one small knife and fork (for the fish), one tablespoon (for the soup), one oyster-fork. The knives and forks are laid at the right and left of the plate, the oyster-fork and the spoon being conveniently to hand. A glass goblet for water is set at the right, about eight inches from the edge of the table; if wine is to be served the requisite glasses are grouped about the water goblet.

The napkin is folded square, with one fold turned back to inclose a thick piece of bread; or, the napkin may be folded into a triangle that will stand upright, holding the bread within its folds. This is the only way in which bread is put on the dinner-table, though a plate of bread is on the sideboard to be handed to those who require a second piece. It is entirely proper to ask for it, when desired. Butter is not usually placed on the dinner-table, but is handed from the sideboard if the menu includes dishes that require it; as, sweet corn, sweet potatoes, etc. Small butter-plates are included in the "cover" in such cases.

The oysters, which form the initial course, are usually on the table before the guests take their places. A majolica plate, containing four or six of the bivalves with a bit of lemon in the midst, is placed at each cover; or, oyster cocktails may be served. The soup tureen and plates are brought in to the side table. All is now in readiness.

THE ARRIVAL OF GUESTS—MEANWHILE

While these preparations have been going on in the dining-room, the guests have been assembling in the drawing-room. It is proper to arrive from five to fifteen minutes before the hour mentioned in the invitation, allowing time to pay respects to the host and hostess, without haste of manner, before the dinner is announced.

A gentleman wears a dress suit at dinner. A lady wears a handsome gown, "dinner dress" being "full dress;" differing, however, from the evening party or reception gown in the kind of fabrics used. The most filmy gauzes are suitable for a ball costume; while dinner dress—for any but very young ladies—is usually of more substantial materials—rich silk or velvet softened in effect with choice lace, or made brilliant with jet trimmings.

When the dinner party is strictly formal, and the company evenly matched in pairs, the following order is observed:

Each gentleman finds in the hall, as he enters, a card bearing his name and the name of the lady whom he is to take out; also, a small boutonniere, which he pins on his coat. If the lady is a stranger, he asks to be presented to her, and establishes an easy conversation before moving toward the dining-room.

THE ANNOUNCEMENT OF DINNER

When dinner is ready the fact is made known to the hostess by the butler, or maid-servant, who comes to the door and quietly says "Dinner is served." A bell is never rung for dinner, nor for any other formal meal.

The host leads the way, taking out the lady who is given the place of first consideration; the most distinguished woman, the greatest stranger, the most elderly—whatever the basis of distinction. Other couples follow in the order assigned to them, each gentleman seating the lady on his right. The hostess comes last, with the most distinguished male guest. If there is a footman, or more than one, the chairs are deftly placed for each guest; but if only a maid is in waiting, each gentleman arranges his own and his partner's chairs as quietly as possible.

As soon as the company are seated, each one removes the bread; and the napkin, partially unfolded, is laid across the lap. It is not tucked in at the neck or the vest front, or otherwise disposed as a feeding-bib. It is a towel, for wiping the lips and fingers in emergencies, but should be used unobtrusively—not flourished like a flag of truce.

THE SERVING OF THE DINNER

The servant is ready to hand from the side-board any condiments desired for the oysters, which are promptly disposed of. It may be remarked at the outset, that everything at table is handed at the left, except wine, which is offered at the right. Ladies are served first.

After the oyster-plates are removed, the soup is served from the side table—a half ladleful to each plate being considered the correct quantity. The rule regarding soup is double, you must, and you must not. You must accept it (whether you eat it or merely pretend to), but you must not ask for a second helping, since to do so would prolong a course that is merely an "appetizer" preparatory to the substantials.

The soup-plates are removed, and the fish immediately appears, served on plates with mashed potatoes or salad, or sometimes both, in which case a separate dish is provided for the salad. The entrees follow the fish, hot plates being provided, as required. Dishes containing the entrees should have a large spoon and fork laid upon them, and should be held low, so that the guest may help himself easily.

Again the dishes are removed. Here we may pause to remark that the prompt and orderly removal of the dishes after each successive course is a salient feature of skillful waiting. The accomplished waiter never betrays haste or nervousness, but his every movement "tells," and that, too, without clatter, or the dropping of small articles, or the dripping of sauces. The plates, etc., vanish from the table—whither, we observe not. The waiter in the dining-room must have the co-operation of the servant behind the scenes, to receive and convey the relays of dishes to the kitchen. However it is managed, and it must be managed, the nearer the operation can appear to be a "magic transformation," the better.

To return; the roast is the next course. The carving is done at the side table. Guests are consulted as to their preference for "rare" or "well-done;" and the meat, in thin slices, is served on hot plates, with vegetables at discretion on the same plate, separate vegetable dishes—except for salads—not being used on private dinner tables. Certain vegetables, as sweet corn on the cob, may be regarded as a course by themselves, being too clumsy to be disposed of conveniently on a plate with other things.

The game course is next in order (if it is included, as it generally is in an elaborate dinner). Celery is an appropriate accompaniment of the game course. The salad is sometimes served with the game; otherwise it follows as a course by itself.

The salad marks the end of the heavy courses. The crumb tray is brought, and the table-cloth is cleared of all stray fragments. A rolled napkin makes a quiet brush for this purpose, especially on a finely polished damask cloth.

The dessert is now in order. Finger-bowls and doylies are brought in on the dessert-plates. Each person at once removes the bowl and doyley to make ready for whatever is to be put on the plate.

Ices, sweets (pastry and confections), cheese, follow in course; and, finally, the fruits and bon-bons. Strong coffee is served last of all, in small cups. Fashion decrees cafe noir, and few lovers of cream care to rebel on so formal an occasion as a dinner; but when the formality is not too rigid, the little cream jug may be smuggled in for those who prefer cafe au lait.

Water is the staple drink of the American dinner-table. A palatable table water, like Apollinaris, well iced, is an elegant substitute for wine when habit or conscience forbids the latter.

When wine is served with the different courses at dinner, the appropriate use is as follows: with soup, sherry; with the fish, chablis, hock, or sauterne; with the roast, claret and champagne; after the game course, Madeira and port; with the dessert, sherry, claret, or Burgundy. After dinner are served champagne and other sparkling wines, just off the ice, and served without decanting, a napkin being wrapped around the wet bottle.

While wine may be accounted indispensable by many, the growing sentiment in favor of its total banishment from the dinner-table has this effect on the etiquette of the case, that the neglect to provide wine for even a very formal dinner is not now the breach of good form which it would have been held to be some years ago. Such neglect has been sanctioned by the example of acknowledged social leaders; and when it is the exponent of a temperance principle it has the respect of every diner-out, whatever his private choice in the matter. No gentleman will grumble at the absence of wine at his host's table. It is good form for a host to serve or not serve wine, as he chooses; it is very bad form for his guest to comment on his choice. When any one who is conscientiously opposed to wine-drinking, or for any reason abstains, is present at a dinner where wine is served, he declines it by simply laying his hand on the rim of his glass as the butler approaches. No words are necessary. Apollinaris will take the place of stronger waters, and no embarrassment follows to either host or guest. As to the moral involved, a silent example may be quite as influential as an aggressive exhibition of one's principles. Questions of manners and morals are constantly elbowing one another, and it is a nice point to decide when and how far duty requires one to defy conventionality. It is safe to say that only in extreme cases is this ever necessary, or even permissible. The hostess who simply does not offer wine to any guest under any circumstances, is using her influence effectively and courteously, especially when she supplies the deficiency with delicious coffee and cocoa, fragrant tea, and, best and rarest of all, crystal clear, sparkling cold water. By pointing out a "more excellent way," she is adding to her faith virtue.

MISCELLANEOUS POINTS

Extra knives and forks are brought in with any course that requires them. The preliminary lay-out is usually meant to provide all that the scheme of the dinner will call for; but one must have a goodly supply of silver and cutlery to avoid altogether the necessity for having some of it washed and returned to the table during the progress of the dinner. It is very desirable to be amply equipped, as it facilitates the prompt and orderly serving of the courses.

Fruit-knives are required, and ice-spoons, orange-spoons, and other unique conceits in silver utensils may be provided with the dessert, if one happens to own them; otherwise, plain forks and spoons do duty as required. The fork bears the chief burden of responsibility, being used for everything solid or semi-solid, leaving the spoon to the limited realm of soft custards and fruits that are so juicy as to elude the tines of the fork.

The knife is held in hand as little as possible, being used only when cutting is actually necessary, the fork easily separating most vegetables, etc. In the fish course, however, the knife is used to assist in removing the troublesome small bones.

In holding the knife the fingers should not touch the blade, except that the forefinger rests upon the upper edge not far below the shank when the cutting requires some firmness of pressure. The dinner knife should be sharp enough to perform its office without too much muscular effort, or the possible accident of a duck's wing flying unexpectedly "from cover" under the ill-directed stress of a despairing carver's hand. I have seen the component parts of a fricasseed chicken leave the table, not untouched—oh! no; every one had been sawing at it for a half-hour—but uneaten it certainly was, for obvious reasons. The cutlery was pretty, but practically unequal to even spring chicken.

The fork is held with the tines curving downward, that position giving greater security to the morsel, and is raised laterally, the points being turned, as it reaches the mouth, just enough to deposit the morsel between the slightly-parted lips. During this easy movement the elbow scarcely moves from its position at the side, a fact gratefully appreciated by one's next neighbor. What is more awkward than the arm projected, holding the fork pointing backward at a right angle to the lips, the mouth opening wide like an automatic railway gate to an approaching locomotive—the labored and ostentatious way in which food is sometimes transported to its destination? Nor, once in the mouth, is it lost to sight forever. Other people, seated opposite, are compelled to witness it in successive stages of the grinding process, as exhibited by the constant opening and shutting of the mouth during mastication, or laughing and talking with the mouth full—faults of heedless people of energetic but not refined manners.

Liquids are sipped from the side of the spoon, without noise or suction. In serving vegetables the tablespoon is inserted laterally, not "point first."

Celery is held in the fingers, asparagus also, unless the stalks are too tender. Green corn may be eaten from the cob, a good set of natural teeth being the prime requisite. It may be a perfectly graceful performance if daintily managed.

The management of fruits in the dessert is another test of dainty skill. Oranges may be eaten in different ways. Very juicy fruit may be cut in halves across the sections and scooped out with a spoon. The drier "seedless" oranges are better peeled and separated. With a fruit knife, remove the tough skin of each peg, leaving enough dry fiber to hold it by, in conveying it to the mouth. Practice enables one easily to "make way with" an orange. Bananas are cut in two, the skin removed; the fruit is held in the fingers, or—preferably—eaten with a fork. Juicy pears and peaches may be managed in the same way, at discretion, the rule being that the fingers should touch as little as possible fruits that are decidedly mushy.

The finger-bowl stands ready to repair all damages of the nature suggested. The fingers are dipped in the water and gently rinsed, and then passed lightly over the lips, and both mouth and fingers are wiped upon the napkin.

At a signal from the hostess, the ladies rise and return to the drawing-room. The gentlemen follow immediately, or remain a short time for another glass of wine, when such is the provision of the host.

DINNER-TABLE TALK

The conversation at the dinner-table should be general, unless the company is large, and the table too long to admit of it. But in any case, each one is responsible first of all for keeping up a pleasant chat with his or her partner, and not allowing that one to be neglected while attention is riveted on some aggressively brilliant talker at the other end of the table. No matter how uninteresting one's partner may be, one must be thoughtful and entertaining; and such kind attention may win the life-long gratitude of a timid debutante, or the equally unsophisticated country cousin.

Dinner-table talk should be affable. The host and hostess must be alert to turn the conversation from channels that threaten to lead to antagonisms of opinion; and each guest should feel that it is more important just now to make other people happy than to gratify his impulse to "floor" them on the tariff question. In short, at dinner, as under most social conditions, the watchword ever in mind should be, "Not to myself alone."

INFORMAL DINNERS

The informal dinner, daily served in thousands of refined American homes, is a much less pretentious affair than the name "dinner" technically implies. In most cases the service is but partially a la Russe, most courses, and all the entrees, being set on the table, the serving and "helping" being done by some member of the family; the presence of a waitress being sometimes dispensed with except at transition points; as, when the table is cleared before the dessert. This formality is the most decided dinner feature of the meal, which throughout its progress has been conducted more like a luncheon. Yet, in all essential points of mannerliness, the family dinner is governed by the same rules that control the formal banquet.

It is perhaps needless to remark that the diner a la Russe in its perfection cannot be carried out without a number of competent servants. These may be hired when some special occasion warrants extra preparations for due formality. But for customary "entertaining," those who "live quietly," with possibly but one domestic to assist with the dinner, will show good sense in not attempting anything more imposing than they are able to compass successfully. The "family dinner" has a dignity of its own when in keeping with all the conditions; and though its menu may be simple, its service unpretentious, it may be the gracious exponent of a hospitality "fit for a king."

At the informal dinner it is customary to seat the guests in the order in which they enter the dining-room, without assigning any place of distinction; all the places at table being held of equal honor—comfort and convenience being the things chiefly considered.



LUNCHEONS

The most elastic word in the whole vocabulary of entertaining is the term luncheon. It is applied to a mid-day meal occurring any time between 11 A. M. and 3 P. M., and may mean anything, from a brilliant a la Russe banquet, to the hastily gathered together fragments left from yesterday's dinner.

It may describe an hour of absolute leisure, and the most delightful conversational interchange, or it may signify the five minutes' grab from the side-board between the games of a closely-contested amateur tennis tournament.

In general, we may say that the most formal of luncheons, resembling the dinner in the main features of its serving, has these points of distinction; the number of guests is irregular, usually uncertain, they go to the table singly; they come dressed in any way that the hour of the day, or their recent occupations warrant—men dropping in dressed for business or sporting, and ladies in promenade costumes, with bonnets or hats; the hour is not rigidly fixed,—luncheon, being largely of cold dishes, is not spoiled by a half-hour's tardiness—a late comer is greeted as cordially as the first arrival; and "the more the merrier" seems to be the motto of the hostess who keeps "open house" at luncheon time.

The formal luncheons for which engraved invitations are issued, are usually "ladies' luncheons;" and the formality of the serving is equalled by the elegance of the toilets. Men have little leisure for day-time entertainments, except during the brief outing at some summer resort, where the easy-going lunch is the ruling fashion.

The menu of the cold luncheon may present great variety, and provide for many guests with little trouble. For a smaller, or more definite, number a hot luncheon may be prepared—a tender steak with mashed potatoes and asparagus, or something equally simple—and a dessert of cakes, ice-cream, and fruits; in all respects a little "informal dinner."

The large buffet luncheon, like the four o'clock tea, gives opportunity for displaying all the pretty china that one owns. Flowers and fruits may decorate the table or tables, and the most artistic effects may be secured by a little attention to blending and grouping. A hostess who knows how can make her rooms look like a festal bower for these occasions without much money outlay; and if she also is clever in the compounding of made dishes and salads, she can give luncheons that are remembered as the epitome of good style, albeit the bills for the same were surprisingly small. Such a gifted woman enjoys a sense of exultation that is unknown to her richer sister, who merely fills out a cheque for the cost and leaves all else to the caterer, as one must, when the luncheon is given at a club or tea room.

In general, the buffet luncheon is much the same on all occasions, when entertaining large companies at home. The difference is not so much in the way of serving, as in the kind of refreshments proffered. The tea may be a light affair, if you will; merely a bit and a sip for good fellowship. But the luncheon is one of the solid meals of the day, requiring something substantial. Such sustaining things as chicken salad, appetizing sandwiches, bouillon (hot or jellied), cold sliced ham, with relishes, as celery, olives, seasonable fruits, etc., satisfy the normal hunger at noontime; and delicious cakes and ices with coffee make a festal finale. Almost any attractive luncheon dish may be included, preferably things that are not hurt by standing; as the luncheon service for a large party fills an hour or two. For this reason, coffee is the most manageable beverage to serve.

The refreshments are arranged on the dining-table. A fine table-cloth may be used; or handsome doylies if the table itself is of handsome finish. The salad bowl is set on one side, the platters of sandwiches, etc., on the other; with the coffee urn at one end, the ices at the other, if there is room; otherwise, the cake and ices are served from a side table. Another side table is desirable, to hold the stacks of dishes and napkins.

As the hostess must give her entire attention to receiving her guests, she intrusts the oversight of the dining-room to several matrons, who are aided by a bevy of the younger girls (the young men also, at an evening party). At the proper time these young people pass the napkins and plates (usually with the salad already served) to the guests scattered around the rooms. Other things are promptly brought, the coffee being served immediately after, by another set of helpers. Since all cannot be seated, small tables placed here and there in the suite of rooms will give the standing ones a chance to set a coffee cup down now and then. Candy in tiny reception sticks may be passed with the cake; or bonbon dishes may be set in unexpected places about the rooms, where any one who discovers them may nibble at will.

The family waitress, with extra help if needed, should be in attendance near the dining-room exit, to receive the used dishes and remove them at once from the scene. This is a nice point; for a congestion of dishes in the dining-room spoils the effect of an otherwise well-managed service. The maid will also keep the stack of plates, etc., replenished; and she will carry back and forth from the pantry the salad bowl and platters for replenishing.

Cutlery is limited to a fork for the salad, a spoon for the coffee, and a fork or spoon for the ice cream. The ices may be in fancy individual shapes, if one chooses to take that much trouble; but the brick, brought in ready sliced for serving, is always suitable, and easier to manage.

Much of this is so generally understood that further details seem superfluous. The least experienced hostess need not be overanxious about small points, if the general order is observed; for luncheon guests are a genial crowd, and nobody notices little mishaps. I am assuming that your guests are all very nice people, in sympathy with you, and aiding you to the extent of their ability to make things pleasant. Those who have this sincere disposition need no instruction in behavior. Each one's conduct will be guided by her own instinctive sense of propriety. One who is habitually polite is not likely to make any blunders at a luncheon, since there are no rigid conventionalities to be infringed.

If the luncheon hour is much past noon, the guests should be careful not to remain too long after, as they might thus be detaining the hostess from later afternoon engagements.



SUPPERS

A supper is a late evening meal, and may be an entertainment by itself, or be served in connection with some social event. A supper is understood to consist prevailingly of hot dishes, which distinguishes the supper from the collation—which might be served on similar occasions—and which is mainly of cold dishes. The distinction is not absolute, however.

A formal supper, or banquet, is served a la Russe, and resembles the dinner in its general conduct; but instead of the heavy roast and vegetables, the game is the conspicuous course, and various preparations of oysters, lobster, terrapin, etc., crowd the menu card, with salads of all kinds. Nine o'clock is a fashionable hour for the sit-down supper. The supper served at a dance or a reception is timed to suit the leading features of the evening. The menu for these "crush" suppers covers the ground of the hot supper and the cold collation combined, and there are few things within the range of dainty cookery that are not permissible.

The most "social" and enjoyable suppers—with the doctor's permission—are those that are served an home after the hostess and her guests have returned from the theatre or opera, lecture or concert. Tiny biscuit, sandwiches, fried oysters, chicken salad, and golden coffee, with ice-cream and some superior cake, served like a luncheon, make a supper easily arranged, and one which winds up a pleasant evening in a very satisfactory way.



BREAKFASTS

A formal breakfast has little distinctive character. It differs very slightly from an early luncheon, except that the viands are more distinctly breakfast dishes; as, toast, hot muffins, omelettes and other preparations of eggs, delicate farinaceous foods, cafe au lait, etc. If it is the veritable breaking of the fast the guests must be very late risers indeed, as 11 o'clock, or even 12, noon, is a fashionable hour for this so-called breakfast, which is a phase of social entertaining reserved for the "leisure class," or only at odd intervals possible to people of active pursuits. The morning hours are precious to the hurried man of business, and the care-environed housekeeper; and "promptness and dispatch" is the motto of the breakfast table in most houses.

The real breakfast of everyday life is the meal where we least expect to meet guests—unless it be some one who is staying at the house. It is a rare thing for a friend to "drop in" to breakfast, and to invite him to do so is perhaps the rarest expression of hospitality, and will probably remain so, while we remain a nation of brain and hand workers.

During the summer vacation, when we pause for a breathing spell, no more charming hospitality can be offered than a dainty breakfast, especially in the country. It may be the preliminary to an all-day house party, or a picnic excursion; or the breakfast may be the goal of an early morning drive by carriage or motor, and the hour may be early or late, just as you please; for is not vacation a period of emancipation from the tyranny of the clock? But let not the hour be too early, for tired people are heavy sleepers; yet not too late either, lest the heat of the sun may have become too suggestive of the approaching noon-tide; late enough for weary eyelids to unclose willingly, early enough for the fresh dewy odor still to cling to the vines on the porch.

The conventional breakfast in town is given very seldom as compared with dinners and luncheons. It is peculiarly a holiday hospitality, reserved until the men are at leisure; for breakfast without the man of the house would be Hamlet with the prince left out.

There is another significant distinction: the guests are chosen from the inner circle. When, on Christmas morning, Mr. and Mrs. A. entertain Mr. and Mrs. B. and Mr. and Mrs. C. at breakfast, we infer at once their intimate friendship and congenial companionship. One may lunch impersonally with comparative strangers; one may dine formally touching elbows with one's dearest foe but one does not of choice breakfast with any one but a friend, or a friend of a friend—graciously accepted on trust. Breakfast is the most intimate breaking of bread; not even the festive elaboration can make the friendly breakfast seem like anything but "playing at" formality. The service is essentially the same as it usually is in that household, except that the children are not at the table. The more homelike it is, the better; for home atmosphere is revealed as at no other meal, and on no other occasion can a visitor be made to feel so entirely "one of the family."

The guests remain but a short time after a breakfast, chatting in a leisurely way, but leaving rather promptly.

The problem of the family breakfast is complicated by the modern stress of business life. In suburban towns the typical "commuter" must flee away with little ceremony; for the 7:08 will not wait, and the 7:10 is a way train. In most families breakfast is on the European plan, so to speak. For this very reason, perhaps, the occasional holiday breakfast is the more attractive. With no train to "catch," no boat to "make," no office hours to "keep," no demon of driving work to lash one to the treadmill, how delightful to be able to breakfast with the serenity of the genial "Autocrat" himself; and how very odd it seems to find oneself sociably disposed at this unwonted hour! May it not convey the gentle admonition that we might be more social every day, if we only thought so?

Psychologically, the breakfast is peculiar. It is the first commingling of the day; and whether it be the late holiday feast, or the usual family gathering, it sets the pace for the twenty-four hours. A cheerful start in the morning may give an optimistic momentum for all-day hill-climbing; or, one may slip dejectedly down hill if leaden-weighted with a "morning grouch" (one's own, or somebody else's). Even fellow "boarders" might reflect on this, with profit. Preoccupied with our own affairs, we forget to be mutually considerate. We habitually wake to rush and worry, taking social recreation chiefly at the close of day, when too weary to appreciate it. Might it not sometimes be well to get ourselves into a good humor the first thing in the morning, and then work afterward? Few people are of such a happy, self-contained disposition that they do not need the sustaining influence of other cheerful spirits. Most of us would have more of sunshine in our hearts if the first business of the morning had been to put ourselves in harmony with our fellow-creatures socially. And if we cannot do this every day, nor even often, according to our ideal, we at least doubly appreciate the rare occasions when it has been possible, and we feel impulsively grateful to the hostess whose thoughtful kindness has made our holiday so bright at its dawning. Other ways of entertaining may be more imposing; none are more delightful. Bid whom you will to dine with you, but ask me to breakfast.



EVENING PARTIES

This general term includes a variety of social entertainments, and suggests all degrees of formality, from the stately reception to the "surprise party." With a range so varied, classification is not readily made. Some features are always present: a host and hostess always receive; a guest always first pays his respects to his entertainers, and then mingles agreeably with the throng. He makes himself useful in any way that tact and courtesy suggest. Supper is served, usually the buffet collation. It is more formal, and less confusing, if the guests go to the dining-room—convenient numbers at a time—instead of being served in the parlors, as at a luncheon. On formal occasions professional readers and musicians are often engaged as entertainers. Sometimes the amusement is furnished by clever amateurs among the guests, who may read, sing, or whistle, or what not. In a circle where all are well acquainted, some of the pleasantest evening parties are those to the success of which each one contributes his mite, cheerfully singing in the chorus when nature has denied him a solo voice, and not allowing any dark jealousy of superior gifts to deprive the harmony of his one little note.

Invitations to these informal parties are cordial and personal in tone. If the guest is expected to make preparation, in costume or to fill some part on the programme, that fact is briefly stated. For practical suggestions, consult "Parlor Games," adding any novel features that you can devise. A hostess with original ideas for entertainments is always successful and popular. Elderly people as well as the young enjoy these parties; and they are a safe resource for mixed companies, when a form of entertainment must be chosen that will please all and offend none.

Children's parties, usually afternoon affairs, are often merely childish "good times"; but again, they are conducted in close imitation of an evening party for adults, and thus made a means of education in the social ceremonial. When sensibly managed, the children's party affords a fine opportunity for training the little people in polite manners.

When the children are almost grown up, but not "out," pleasant little parties for "the younger set" are given by the mothers, to accustom the "buds" to conventionalities, and prepare the debutantes and their young brothers to take their place gracefully in the larger social world. These younger-set parties are like a grown-up party, except that they are conspicuously chaperoned, and all responsibility is assumed by the mothers and godmothers.

The two extreme phases of the evening party are the conventional ball, and the rural "sociable."

The special requirements for a ball are good music, and large well-ventilated rooms, from which all superfluous furniture has been removed. For music, an orchestra of four or six pieces may be sufficient. For space, we must make the best of what we have, if the ball is given at home. This is practicable only where the rooms are reasonably spacious. Nowadays, a ball in a private house is rare, for hotels, clubs, and first class caterers furnish charming ballrooms for rental to exclusive patrons.

But whether in her own house or in a hired ballroom, the hostess is for the time "at home"; and the general conduct of the ball is the same in both cases. Decorations, floral and otherwise, are important; and a supper, served either during the progress, or at the close of the dance—or both—is an indispensable feature.

The guests arrive at the hour designated, not earlier than nine o'clock. The hostess is stationed at some point near the entrance of the drawing-room, where she remains during the evening to receive the guests, who must pay their respects to her, first of all. A gentleman will also lose no time in finding his host, and paying him the courtesy of a deferential greeting.

As the hostess cannot delegate her special duty of receiving, she has usually several aids, young matrons, who keep a watchful eye upon the dancing throng, and see to it that partners are not lacking for those who might otherwise be overlooked; and in any way that the emergency may suggest, or tact devise, they radiate the hospitality from its centre—the hostess.

A gentleman in American society does not ask a lady to dance until he has been introduced to her. He may seek an introduction for this purpose, or the hostess may request him to be introduced. In either case, the lady and the gentleman both cheerfully acquiesce. A lady usually accepts the invitation to dance, unless the dance is already engaged. She should be careful to inspect her tablets; and not promise the same dance to two different partners, an awkward accident that sometimes happens to a heedless belle. After a dance, a gentleman promenades with his partner, chats with her for awhile, and, finally, with a graceful bow, leaves her once more in the care of her chaperone.

If a man has made an engagement to take a particular lady out to supper, he must not forget himself and linger talking to another lady until supper is fairly announced, since etiquette then requires him to take out the lady with whom he is at the moment talking. He should seek the one he has chosen, some moments before, and leave the other lady free to receive other invitations to supper.

Any gentleman who observes a lady who is not being served with refreshments, should courteously offer to bring her something. If he is a total stranger he will attempt no conversation beyond the civilities of the case; but these he will cordially though unobtrusively offer. The young man who does these little things with the gentle grace of a knight errant, may not know that he is simply charming, from a woman's standpoint; but the fact remains.

A ball, proper, is a strictly formal affair. A dancing party, while observing similar regulations on the dancing floor, may be, in the social intervals between dances, as informal as a village "sociable." That is to say, as informal as the sociable ever ought to be; possibly not as informal as the sociable sometimes is. People who have "grown up" together, as villagers often have, are apt to consider a life-long acquaintance the proper basis for unlimited off-hand familiarity. To a certain extent, and in a certain sense, such acquaintance, being second in intimacy only to near relationship, does warrant a cordial and trustful informality. The cautious reserve that marks one's conduct toward a recent acquaintance might justly be resented by a tried and trusted friend of one's youth. But even relationship does not warrant undignified behavior, or rude liberties of speech or action. The boy and girl who went to school together grow up to be the young man and woman of society; and while the memory of school days is a bond of hearty friendliness between them, it is not necessary that they should evince their mutual regard by a free-and-easy demeanor.

Country sociables, attended largely by the younger members of families long acquainted and associated, are apt to be rather rollicking, not to say "rough and tumble," affairs, where practical jokes and unmerciful "guying" are the characteristic wit, and such smart tricks as bumping an unsuspecting comrade's head against the wall are applauded with shrieks of admiring laughter. The onlookers may be excused for their tacit countenance of the rudeness, since some element of drollery—that might have been wit, under better conditions—compels a smile, in spite of a dignified disapproval of the performance. A young student, unused to such scenes, standing a little apart from such a group once remarked judicially to a lady near him, "I do not care for such dare-devil sociability." Nor would other young people cherish it as their ideal of a "good time" if they could learn how much more charming altogether it is to exchange the delicate courtesies that make up refined social companionship. The difference in social culture is what distinguishes the vulgar wag from the urban wit. The crude humor of the former, often marred by coarseness, is like ore in which the dross greatly out-weighs the pure metal. The brilliant mots of the latter, refined by the processes of culture, are like the gold nuggets separated from their base surroundings.

How to eliminate the "dare-devil" from the sociability of country life, without substituting an artificial stiffness, is the problem for every thoughtful and refined man and woman in rural circles. How to "be kindly affectioned one to another, in brotherly love, in honor preferring one another"—perhaps that would furnish the keynote of it all, alike for the citizen and the rustic.



THE TWENTIETH CENTURY

The preceding chapters describe established customs in home entertaining. Such rules remain in force for the home conditions.

But who can live in this electric-motor age without noting the gradual variation in "the ways of doing things"—changes that are directly traceable to the influence of modern inventions? The trolley lines have brought large areas within the city limits; the swift automobile has reduced miles to furlongs. Town and country are intermingled as never before, and each is sensibly modified by the other. By its very name, the "Town and Country" club recognizes this new community of interests. Its members, living even twenty miles away, outdo Sheridan's ride, in arriving at the club on time for luncheon, golf, or dinner.

Which brings to mind this fact: that to-day a large part of formal entertaining in cities is no longer at home. Elaborate dinners, teas, and luncheons are given at one's club, or at cafes, exclusive "tea rooms," and in the elegantly appointed private dining-rooms now provided by the best hotels. After-theatre suppers are almost invariably taken at a fashionable restaurant—doubtless greatly to the relief of both the hostess and her housemaids. While cooperative housekeeping is still an undeveloped scheme, things seem to be trending that way.

The multiplication of huge apartment houses (and diminutive apartments) is the other prime factor in the case. While the hotel dinner may have come into fashion first as the dire necessity of the "cliff dwellers," its convenience appeals to many householders who formerly would not have dreamed of offering their guests the hospitality of a cafe. Many conservative people still deplore the innovation; but fashion approves, and the custom grows.

Entertaining at one's club is governed by the rules of that particular club. When entertaining at tea rooms, or cafes, one has simply to arrange with the superintendent or the head waiter, for tables or private dining-room, for the date chosen; to choose the menu, and order the decorations. This done, the entertainers and their friends have but to appear at the stated hour and play their respective roles with care-free grace. These dinners may be given by a bachelor, to a mixed company, or to a bevy of the debutantes, with the co-operation of a society matron or a married couple to chaperone the affair. This is a very pleasant way for a bachelor to make return for the social attentions showered on himself.

This way of entertaining may be lavishly expensive, but it is not necessarily so; all things considered, it may not greatly exceed the cost of similar entertaining at home. In this land of the free, any one who will may give a tea room luncheon. But the semi-publicity of these functions invites criticism; and people of moderate income discreetly forbear attempting anything too ambitious for their obvious means. Elegant simplicity is always good form.

The universal use of the telephone is another factor in the modification of social customs. Among familiar friends, the little chat over the 'phone largely takes the place of the informal call. Also, invitations to any but strictly formal functions are now sent by telephone, if agreeable to both parties; though it is still considered better to adhere to the more respectful written form if there is any doubt about the new way being acceptable to the party of the second part. While I counsel conservatism in these changes, I am convinced that the new dynasty of wire and wireless is destined to dominate us; and as discovery continues and inventions multiply, the time is near when immediate communication will be had at long range; possibly telepathy—who knows? Or, possibly tele-photography with it—why not? Then, the slow, laborious writing of messages will be as much out of date as the super-annuated stage-coach.

But—not yet; we are still in the process of evolution. It is still safe to heed Pope's famous advice:

"Be not the first by whom the new is tried, Nor yet the last to lay the old aside."



"THE STRANGER THAT IS WITHIN THY GATES"

It is the duty of the host or hostess to give a polite and cheerful welcome to the guest whom they have invited to cross their threshold. During the time that she remains under their roof they have the responsibility of making her comfortable, and as happy as possible. To do this, attention to details is of the greatest consequence. It is possible to give dinners, and musicales, and receptions for a guest, and to introduce her to a choice circle of friends; to plan drives and excursions for sight-seeing to points of interest; to bring out the best preserves from the store-room, and put on the table all the delicacies of the season; and yet something may be lacking. A subtle expression of discomfort may at times cloud the face of the guest, and greatly disturb the anxious hostess, who redoubles her efforts to think of something else in the way of entertainment and diversion. If this well-meaning hostess will accompany me to the guest-room while its temporary occupant is reading on the "front porch," perhaps I can point out to her some things that will give a clue to the mystery.

The guest-room is large and airy, and "well-furnished," as the phrase goes, with a soft carpet prevailingly blue, and a prettily carved oaken "set." The bed is covered with a lace counterpane over a blue silk quilt, and downy pillows invite to slumber. Curtains of blue silk and white lace are draped at the windows; cushions, tidies, sachets, gim-cracks of every description load the bureau, and lie around in profusion; a pretty rug of fluffy fur is spread before a comfortable couch, and a rocking-chair and foot-stool are in the cozy window recess. A small table with a vase of flowers upon it occupies one space against the wall. The wash-stand bears the regulation "toilet set," bowl and pitcher, soap-dish, etc., with the china jar set in the corner. Plenty of damask towels hang on the rack, and the "splasher" is a marvel of needlework. Well, is not this a pretty comfortable room?

It seems ungracious to answer nay; but truth compels me to say that it proves to be a most uncomfortable room, as managed. Since the guest arrived, this three-quart pitcher has been filled each morning with cold water. Beyond this, no offer of the aqueous element in any form has been made. The guest, accustomed at home to an abundance of hot water, and the luxury of a bath daily—or oftener, at will—has been suffering the greatest privation rather than trouble her hostess with a request for something which is so evidently not thought of in this house. With soap that "chaps," and a stiff nail-brush she has painfully scrubbed her cold knuckles to remove the grime which several days of imperfect ablution has rendered almost immovable—except as the skin comes with it. And as to her customary bath, she has substituted so much of hasty sponging as chattering teeth will allow, finishing off with a dry polish when prudence forbids further risk of a chill; and she has completed her toilet with a sense of self-disgust, and a dissatisfaction with her surroundings which makes her long for the day set for the termination if this visit, which might have been so pleasant, if she had been made physically comfortable. When she goes home she will answer, to the kind inquiries of her mother: "Oh! yes; I had a lovely time!—or that is, I should have had, if only I could have had a bath!"

Whether it is that some people do not care for bathing, and therefore do not realize its necessity to the comfort of other people; or whether they have an idea that a "guest" is a being who, while in that role, needs none of the ordinary comforts of every-day life; or, whatever the reason may be, this failure to provide bath facilities is one of the most common and flagrant neglects of hospitality.

When the guest-room has no private bath attached, and it is impracticable to offer the use of the family bath-room, a small tub of zinc or granite ware should be included in the furnishing of the guest-room, together with a square of thin oil-cloth to spread on the carpet. The guest should be informed that hot water is always in readiness to be brought to her room whenever she requires it. In country houses having no "modern conveniences," every kitchen stove may have an ample boiler always filled with clean water, so that at all times hot water may be available for bathing purposes. It is unpardonable to live without at least this much provision for an essential condition of civilized life—"the cleanliness that is next to godliness."

In addition to the water supply, the guest-room should contain other requisites for a comfortable toilet. Presumably, every guest who comes for a several-days' stay brings with her the small articles she will need; but oversights are frequent in hurried packing, and the resources of the guest-room should be equal to any such emergency, even though only a part of the provision is required in any one case. A neat, close cabinet, with a closet beneath and shelves above, is a desirable piece of furniture. In the closet the bath-tub can be stored, and bath-brushes, "loofahs," and sponges can be hung up while the shelves may hold a supply of toilet sundries; for example, a flask of bay rum, and one of violet-water; a bottle of spirits of ammonia, a bottle of alcohol, a spirit lamp and curling tongs, tooth-powder, rosewater, and glycerine; a jar of fine cold-cream, hair-brush and combs, a clothes-brush, a whisk broom, a reserve supply of soap—"Ivory" (if the water is hard, this soap is superior for the bath) and fine castile, and a delicately-scented soap of first quality. The cheap "scented" abominations should not be inflicted on a guest.

The dressing-table should have a supply of pins in variety, including hairpins; a work-box, containing needles and thread, a thimble, scissors, tape, shoe-buttons, etc. A bottle of cologne and also of some first-class "triple extract" should stand on the bureau.

With all this provided, one is not likely to lack any comfort for the toilet; yet, with it all, the hostess should make her guest understand that the motto is: "If you don't see what you want, ask for it." This freedom will not be taken by a sensitive guest unless it is clearly invited. The self-complacent way in which a hostess sometimes ushers a guest into the "best room," and then leaves her to the mercy of what she can find—or, rather, cannot find—forestalls all requests for additional supplies. In the midst of all the satin and lace flummery, it is pathetic to suffer in silence for the lack of a little beggarly hot water. And yet, such is the experience of many an "honored guest."

Beside the toilet comforts, there are other things that may well be added to the equipment of the guest-room. One, in particular, is a well-appointed little writing-desk, containing all the requisites for letter-writing, including stamps. Perhaps the guest has brought these things with her, more likely she has forgotten them, and it may be a matter of great convenience to her to find this little desk awaiting her. If there is a shelf above, a selection of standard and entertaining books may be placed thereon. The Bible, a book of Common Prayer, a hymnal, may be included; a copy of Shakespeare, a dictionary, some clever and interesting book, like Curious Questions, and a volume or two of sketches and essays, ranging in style from Emerson to Jerome K. Jerome, may agreeably fill the mid-day hour of rest which the guest takes in her room before dressing for the afternoon. The only trouble is that the guest who is made so thoroughly comfortable may forget to go home. At all events, she will no doubt hail with delight a second invitation to come.

It may be objected that to keep the guest-room supplied to this extent would involve a considerable expense; but that would depend on the character of the guest. No well-bred woman would depend on these "supplies" for the entire period of a long visit. They are there to meet the emergency of a belated trunk, of something forgotten or overlooked, or the delays in making necessary purchases after her arrival. She will gratefully accept the cologne until her own flask is unpacked, but she leaves the guest-room supply but little diminished when she departs.

The hostess who has been embittered by seeing only a train of empty bottles in the wake of a departing guest may naturally feel discouraged about offering unlimited hospitality in the matter of druggists' sundries. But it is merely that she has been unfortunate in her guests. She should revise her visiting list. In entertaining the right sort of people, she will have no such experience. She will be fully rewarded for every care she bestows to make her house a home-like resort, and she will find that the cost amounts to very little compared with the large return it brings in the way of social appreciation, to say nothing of the satisfaction afforded to her own benevolent impulses. "It is more blessed to give than to receive," as the ideal hostess can testify.



"MAKE YOURSELF AT HOME"

The responsibilities of a visit are not all on the shoulders of a hostess. The guest has also a duty in the matter.

The phrase of welcome quoted above is variously interpreted, if we may judge by the various ways in which the injunction is obeyed. To some people, "make yourself at home" is a free permit to take possession of everything on the premises; to cut the choicest roses in the garden, to call for the carriage at capricious will, to consult no one's comfort but their own, and to impose upon the polite forbearance of every one else, regardless—in short, to behave as no one can behave at home for any length of time without disrupting that home.

To make one's self at home is to adapt one's self to one's environment. If things are different from what we are accustomed to, we must try to accustom ourselves to them, and the mannerly guest will strive to do this, not as a cross, but as a pleasure. She will meet cordially the friends of her hostess who are introduced to her, however little they attract her; she will cheerfully accompany the family to their church, even though it be of a different faith from her own; and she will listen respectfully to the sermon, and refrain from ungracious criticism of the choir or the minister. She will take an interest in any local happenings that are of vital interest to her entertainers; she will show lively appreciation of everything done for her entertainment, even though it may be but a commonplace and dull affair, in her private judgment. She will measure her grateful duty to them, not so much by the degree of pleasure which they actually give her, as by the amount of effort which they obviously make. It is very ungracious for a guest of wide social experience to be apathetic when some unsophisticated little hostess offers what to her seems a novel treat, but which to her worldly-wise guest is a threadbare device. No matter if the device is threadbare; the spirit of kindness which prompts the effort is immortal; and though we have seen "rainbow teas" until we are weary of them, we will enter cheerfully into the spirit of this one, because our little hostess in the innocence of her heart has worked so hard to make it ready in our honor.

The guest should avoid giving extra trouble to the hostess, or to the servants. She may offer assistance when circumstances warrant her doing so, but must refrain from meddling with household matters when her help is evidently not desired. She should entertain herself easily when the hostess is otherwise busy, yet never seem to have any absorbing occupation that would prevent her from being ready at once to join the family in any project. If there are children in the house, she should be cordial and affectionate with them, without gushing insincerity or indiscreet petting, and she should not betray any annoyance if they are noisy and occasionally troublesome—as the best of children will be at times. She should aim to feel and act as though the interests and pleasures of the family were her own, and not make remarks that are tacit comparisons to their disadvantage. If there are glaring faults in the domestic management, it is not her province to correct them, except so far as a quiet example may be subtly influential, as it will be, if at heart she makes herself a part of the circle of sympathy. After her return to her own home, she should write a letter to her hostess, expressing the pleasure which the memory of her visit gives her, and gracefully thanking her friend for all that made the sojourn so restful and happy.

There is something singularly inspiring in the idea of "making one's self at home," in the sense of finding the value in every environment which fate, or chance, or Providence may place us in. And when, as welcome guests, we listen to this hearty greeting, we resolve that in all ways consistent with our duty to our entertainers, and with all grateful appreciation of their kindness to us, we will "make ourselves at home."



"AS THE TWIG IS BENT"

Every one theoretically admits the importance of early training. It is demonstrated in the animal and the vegetable kingdoms, wherever organic life unfolds and grows; and that the human child is no exception is promptly recognized in theory, however fatally practice ignores it.

Not that parents mean to ignore it; but there is a "happy-go-lucky" impression that somehow "he will come out all right;" that "as he gets older, his own good sense will assert itself," and so on. Happily, this is partly true. A native good disposition and good sense saves many a child from the ruin which an unwise course of training has done its best to precipitate. The wonder is that they "turn out" as well as they do. Perhaps Providence, in visiting its judgments, is lenient to the young and inexperienced parents, themselves undisciplined; to the helpless child, at the mercy of his blind guides.

There is too much negative, too little positive, in child-training; too much querulous reiteration of "don't," too little intelligent teaching how to do. Little children like to be "shown how;" they are fascinated with the games and gifts of the kindergarten, which aims to teach something, not to repress everything. Children are delighted to learn little polite phrases; to make a bow; to hold a fork daintily; to offer little courtesies, and to receive a smiling approbation. They would rather do things prettily than not. They are not "contrary," exceptional cases of hereditary ugliness aside. They are apt pupils, whether their tutor be a philosopher or a fool. And if a faulty example be a child's most constant and influential teacher, what wonder that the lessons, well-learned, are put in practice? And just then, if you listen, you will hear some one issue the emphatic but vacuous command, "Don't!" And the baby doesn't, for the space of a few seconds; after which, unable to get any new suggestions out of the idea-less instructions given him, he proceeds to do the same thing over, only to be again commanded to desist, a spanking for "disobedience" this time varying the monotony of the universal prohibition.

The profane poll-parrot is not a more startling witness to the character of its surroundings than the "terrible infant," whose rude snatchings, pert contradictions, and glib slang phrases are sure to be most effectively "shown off" in the presence of visitors. It is of little use to affect grieved surprise, or stern reprobation, when one's children are merely exhibiting their daily discipline. Most parents feel keenly the embarrassment of having the infant misbehave so inopportunely, and they are apt to offer a tacit apology and a vague self-defense by sharply reprimanding the child in words that are meant to give the visitor the idea that they—the parents—never heard or saw such conduct before, and are now frozen with amazement. The nonchalant or incredulous or impish way in which the children receive these reproofs only confirms the suspicion that such scenes have been frequent, and the discipline attending them has been inconsequent.

One parent I have heard acknowledge the truth of the matter. An elderly clergyman was his guest, and the four-year-old daughter of the house was entertaining the "grandpa" with a toy puzzle, which he fumbled with in vain, unable to put it together or to take it apart. Impatient at last, the little girl hastily snatched it from his hand with a childish growl of contempt, and proceeded to show him the trick, saying, with an airy mingling of criticism and condescension, "By Jove! your name is Dennis; you are not in it!" The old gentleman paused, instinctively prepared to hear the usual "Why, daughter! papa is astonished to hear his little girl," etc, etc., after the fashion of the parental hypocrite. But this candid young father met the dignified eyes squarely, and said promptly, "I'm sorry, Doctor, but there's no use denying it; she is just giving me away." He had the sense to recognize his own teaching, the honesty to admit it. Whether he has the discretion to reform his methods remains to be seen.

For right here is another point: that people think it is "cute" for a little child to say and do things that in a child a few years older would be most unattractively rude. But they must reflect that this same cute little child will soon be a few years older, and will carry into that riper age the fixed habits that are forming now; and it will not be so easy a task to transform the child's manners as it is to dress him in a larger suit of clothes.

A choice rose was grafted upon a wild, thorny stock, and planted beside a veranda trellis. The owner watched it carefully for a year or so, cutting down the rank shoots of the wild stock as they sprang aggressively from the root, allowing the grafted branch to grow in full luxuriance, bearing carmine clusters that filled the garden with spicy odor. The next spring an ignorant gardener pruned away the branches, cutting down the slenderest and leaving what to his unpracticed eye were the most desirable, because the thriftiest, shoots; and when the time of blossoms came, nothing appeared but the ragged petals of the wild thorn.

So, in "the rosebud garden of girls"—or boys. If the choice graft of cultured manners (for it is a graft on the sturdy but wayward stock of human nature) is left to be choked out by the rank, wild growth of impulse, or if by some flagrant error in example and discipline it is practically cut down at the main branch, what can the careless trainer expect? He may weep to find no velvet-petaled rose when he comes to look for it; but he has no right to blame the rose-bush, nor can he, at this late day, hide the tact of his blundering pruning by righteously affirming that he is "perfectly astonished." His neighbors, who have quietly noted the methods pursued in his kindergarten, are not in the least surprised.

Another resource for escaping blame is that of explaining that the children "learn these things at school." Presumably they do not mean from the teachers. It is "from the other children," who seem to be a most injurious class of society. It is their influence which makes our children so rude and so ungrammatical; and, strangely enough, though these other children never dine with our children, so subtle and far-reaching is their baleful influence that our children's defective manners at the table are directly traceable to the same evil source.

Granted, a measure of truth in the charge; for large mirthfulness and large imitation lead children to do things "just for fun," which all the time they know better than to persist in. But, as a fact, demonstrated by observation, a very small percentage of the children who are habituated to correct behavior at home are ever seriously affected by outside influences. A superficial effect may show in little things; but such lapses of speech or manner are transient, and in no degree control the development of the child when his home training is irreproachable. On the other hand, the efforts of an untiring teacher, laboring five hours a day to teach correct language and enunciation, may be of little permanent value, when the remaining hours of the day are spent in a home where the English grammar hourly meets a violent death.

And what is true of grammar is equally true of morals and manners. The school and society may be measurably influential; but the home casts the deciding vote. And when people note the manners—good or bad—of your boys and girls, they do not ask, "What school do they attend?" "What children do they associate with?" but, "Whose children are they?"

Would you have them mannerly? Teach them; by precept, certainly; but above all things, by example.



SOCIAL YOUNG AMERICA

Henry the Fifth, of England, disposed of certain troublesome restrictions of etiquette by remarking that "nice customs curtsey to great kings:" but in the twentieth century, customs are more likely to curtsey to the common sense of the community at large.

City codes and country customs present some contradictious. The exact rules of etiquette in social formalities, which are derived from the established usage of fashionable circles in the city, are constantly subject to modifications when they are applied under the conditions found in rural neighborhoods. This is plainly illustrated in the comminglings of social "Young America." Whereas the city-bred girl is carefully chaperoned, the village girl of equal social standing, intrinsically speaking, is accustomed to go about unconcernedly, either alone or under the escort of some youth, with whom she makes engagements to drive, or walk, or row, or attend picnics, without either of them, as a rule, thinking it necessary to ask her mother to join them, or even to give her permission, that being taken for granted, since it has probably never been denied. And the question naturally arises, Why should it be denied, when the young man is a trusted chum of her brother, and as safe an escort for her as her own father would be? It is a very different case from the similar instance in the city, where the gallant is a comparative stranger, who may or may not be reliable, and where a conventional world is coldly looking on.

But, moreover, if this young country girl chooses, she goes alone to a little evening party a few doors away, or to the evening "meeting" at the village church, and this same youth, or some other one, escorts her home in an impromptu fashion. The young lady probably invites him into the house, if the hour is early and the family are still circled about the parlor lamp. Or, if it is late, she does not ask him in, but invites him to call. She does not thank him for his escort, unless it has been given at obvious inconvenience to himself or others, and is therefore not so much a matter of gallantry as of neighborly accommodation. In the latter case she does thank him frankly for his trouble.

When the young man calls to see her, she receives him with or without the presence of her mother or other members of the family. She may invite him to tea, with her mother's serene but passive approval; and, in fact, the goings and comings of these young people are more like the comradery of two girls than like the formal association of a young man and young woman in society.

We are accustomed to call such a code a country code, because of its almost universal following in small towns and villages. But similar freedom of association is also observed in city circles outside of the exclusive bounds of fashionable life. Indeed, some of the fashions called "countryfied" are equally "cityfied," if we judge by the extent of the usage. But what has been quite safe and sensible and refined in the particular instance in the country, may be a most unsafe freedom in the city, where every circle is constantly being invaded, more or less, by new-comers and by a floating contingent of transient people, whose record is not known even to the people who introduce them. The frank friendliness that is usually good form in the village circle is usually a great mistake in the city. It is better that young ladies, whether nominally chaperoned or not, should be guarded against making acquaintances too readily, especially among young men. If a young man is deserving of social recognition, let the young lady's mother grant it to him by inviting him to her house and permitting his association with her own young people.

A young girl should not extend these invitations to call unless she is well acquainted with the young man, or unless she gives the invitation in her mother's name, and with the understanding that he will be received by her mother as well as herself. Usually, the mother should be the one to extend the hospitality.

In the case of an unmarried woman who is no longer young, it is presumed that discretion will guide her as to when it is dignified and proper to give invitations to call, the conservative side being the safe side where strangers are concerned.

The ideal condition of Americanized chaperonage is far from being realized in the great mass of American society. A small and exclusive circle observes the English code in this matter; the rest of society ignore the whole idea—as an idea—though the thoughtful mother instinctively guards her daughter in a desultory way, perhaps meeting the spirit of the idea in the main, but flagrantly disregarding the letter of the formal code. The two extremes we have; but a real, systematic code of chaperonage that is not French, nor English, nor Spanish, but wholesome, sensible, thorough-going American mother's guardianship we are yet to see definitely carried out. The occasional instance of it which we now and then observe has taught us to appreciate what would be the happiest development in our social life, if once attained.

Meanwhile, the average American girl will probably continue to shine as the startling exception to the rule; and in her remarkable escapes from serious blunders, will continue to bear the palm for self-command and good sense. Her ability to ignore a law, while consciously cherishing all that the law was devised to protect, is a flattering indication of her mental and moral integrity. Even a dull-witted person can follow a set rule; it requires some genius to make a legitimate exception, and it also involves some temerity. It is like gathering mushrooms; perhaps they are edible, perhaps they are poisonous; for the various fungi look very much alike. If it happens to be right, it is right; if it happens to be wrong, it is sheer disaster.

A social code that borrows no artifice from foreign lands and institutions, but which, true to the spirit of our own country, guards the liberty of young girls on the one hand, while on the other it shields them from license, will be welcomed by all thoughtful people. The American chaperone is the coming woman. The girls of the next generation will rise up and call her blessed.



THE AMERICAN CHAPERONE

The question of the chaperone in America is peculiarly perplexing. The consternation of the hen whose brood of ducklings took to the water is a fit symbol of the horrified amazement with which an old-world "duenna" would be filled if she attempted to "look after" a bevy of typical American girls, with their independent—yet confused—ideas of social requirements in the matter of chaperonage.

In Europe, where social lines are distinctly drawn, a young woman either belongs "in society" or else she does not. In the former case she is constantly attended by a chaperone. In the latter case she is merely a young person, a working girl, for whom "society" makes no laws. In our country there is a leisure class of "society women," so recognized. If these alone constituted good society in America, we might simply adopt the European distinctions, and settle the chaperone question by a particular affirmative referring to these alone. But we reflect that our thoughts throughout this little volume are mainly for those who dwell within the broad zone of the average heretofore referred to. In this republican land no one can say that the bounds of good society lie arbitrarily here and there; certainly they are not marked by a line drawn between occupation and leisure. The same young girl—after leaving school, at the period when society life begins—may be "in society" during leisure hours and in business during working hours. It is accounted perfectly lady-like and praiseworthy for a young woman, well born and bred, to support herself by some remunerative employment that holds her to "business hours." She may be a teacher, an artist, a scribe, an editor, a stenographer, a book-keeper—what may she not do, with talent, training, and good sense? And she may do this without being one iota less a lady—if she is one to begin with.

Now appears the complication. As a business woman, the self-reliant young girl does not need a chaperone. As a society woman, this inexperienced, sensitive, human-nature-trusting child does need a chaperone. She is, therefore, subject to what we may call intermittent chaperonage. Business, definite, serious occupation of any kind, is a coat of mail. The woman or girl who is plainly absorbed in some earnest and dignified work is shielded from misinterpretation or impertinent intrusion while engaged in that work. She may go unattended to and from her place of business, for her destination is understood, and her purpose legitimate. She needs no guardian, for her capacity to take care of herself under these conditions, is demonstrated to a respectful public. The spectacle of a stately middle-aged woman accompanying each girl book-keeper to her desk every morning would be burlesque in the extreme. The girl who is thus allowed to go alone to an office in business hours, sometimes thinks it absurd for any one to say that she must not go alone to a drawing-room, and she does go alone. Right here this independent girl makes a mistake. It is granted that the girl with brains and principle to bear herself discreetly during office hours is probably able—in the abstract—to exercise the same good sense at a party.

But the conditions are changed to the eye of the onlooker. The girl who went to the office wearing the shield and armor of her work, now appears in society without that shield. To the observer she differs in no wise from the banker's daughter, who "toils not." Like the latter, she needs on social occasions the watchful chaperonage that should be given to all young girls in these conditions. The woman who is in society at all must conform to its conventional laws, or lose caste in proportion to her defiance of these laws. She cannot defy them without losing the dignity and exclusiveness that characterize a well-bred woman, and without seeming to drift into the careless and doubtful manners of "Bohemia." The fairy-story suggests the principle; Cinderella could work alone in the dust and ashes undisturbed; but the fairy-god-mother must needs accompany her when she went to the ball. In the best circles everywhere, at home and abroad, every young girl during her first years in society is "chaperoned." That is to say, on all formal social occasions she appears under the watch and ward of an older woman of character and standing—her mother, or the mother's representative. The young woman's calls are made, and her visits received, in the company of this guardian of the proprieties; and she attends the theatre or other places of amusement, only under the same safe conduct.

Society to the young girl is May-fair. With the happy future veiled just beyond, she goes to meet a possible romance, and to traverse a circle of events that may haply round up in a wedding-ring. It is of the utmost importance that she shall not be left at the mercy of accidental meetings, indiscreet judgments, and the heedless impulses of inexperienced youth, which may effectually blight her future in its bud. A parent or guardian does a girl incalculable injury in allowing her to enter upon society life without chaperonage, and the unremitting watch-care and control which only a discreet, motherly woman can give to girlhood. Men respect the chaperoned girl. Honorable men respect her as something that is worth taking care of; men who are not honorable respect her as something with which they dare not be unduly familiar—though they account it "smart" to be "hail fellow well met" with the girl who ignorantly goes about unattended, or with other unchaperoned girls, on social occasions. A girl must have an unusual measure of native dignity, as well as native innocence, always to escape the disagreeable infliction of either "fresh" or blase impertinence, if she has no mother's wing to flutter under.

This absolute condition of chaperonage exists during the novitiate of the young society woman. The requirement grows less and less rigid as the young woman grows more and more experienced, and learns to meet social emergencies for herself. That delicate ignoring of a woman's age which is shown in calling her a "girl" until she is married also permits her to be a chaperoned member of society until that event. But when obviously past her youth, it is no longer required that she shall wear the demeanor of a debutante. Nor does propriety demand her mother's constant presence, when years of training have taught the daughter her mother's discretion, and when the mother's own serene dignity looks out of the daughter's eyes.

We are proud of the ideal American girl. I mean the one who is essentially a lady, whether rich or poor, the one whose sterling good sense is equal to her emergencies; the one who is self-reliant without being bold, firm without being overbearing, brainy without being masculine, strong of nerve—"but yet a woman." Let her be equipped for the battle of life, which in our state of society so many girls are fighting single-handed. Instruct her in business principles; teach her to use the discretion needed to move safely along the crowded thoroughfare and to follow the routine of the office or the studio, trusting that with busy head and busy hands she may be safe wherever duty leads her tireless feet. But in her hours of social recreation, when she will meet and solve the vital problems of her own personal life, she needs a subtle something more; the mother's wisdom to supply the deficiencies of her inexperience, the mother's love to enfold her in unspoken sympathy, the mother's approbation to rest upon her dutiful conduct like a benediction.

Let no young girl regard this watch-care as a trammel placed on her coveted liberty. On the contrary, she will find that she has far more social freedom with the countenance of her mother's presence than she could have without it. And in after years, when her life has developed safely and happily under this discreet leadership, she will look back to her debut, and her first seasons in society, with profound gladness that—thanks to somebody wiser than herself—she has escaped the follies that have in more or less measure injured the prospects of her young friends who were too "independent" to submit to the restraints of chaperonage, and who, for lack of it, to-day find themselves to a relative extent depreciated in social estimation.



GREETINGS. RECOGNITIONS. INTRODUCTIONS.

The proverb, "The beginning is half the battle," applies in a multitude of ways. In the first instant of a greeting between two people, the ground upon which they meet should be indicated. Cordiality, reserve, distrust, confidence, caution, condescension, deference—whatever the real or the assumed attitude may be, should be shown unmistakably when eyes meet and heads bend in the ceremony of greeting.

To put into this initial manner the essence of the manner which one chooses to maintain throughout is one of the fine touches of diplomacy. People fail to do this when their effusively gracious condescension subsequently develops into snobbishness, or when an austere stiffness of demeanor belies the friendliness which they really intend to manifest. The latter fault is often due to diffidence or awkward self-consciousness; the former is usually traceable to the caprice of an undisciplined nature, and is a significant mark of ill-breeding.

The vital part of a greeting is in the expression of the eyes. This is so nearly spontaneous that the most guarded cannot altogether veil the spirit that looks out of these "windows of the soul." The studied attitude and genuflection fail to hide surliness or contempt; and hostility, bitter and implacable, may reveal itself by the smoldering spark of anger in the eye, and destroy the effect of the most artful obsequiousness of manner. Since we cannot control this one impulsively-truthful medium of expression, it becomes a matter of policy as well as of morals to harbor no spirits whose "possession" of us would be an unpleasant and inconvenient revelation.

Next to the eyes, the pose of the figure indicates the sentiment of the moment. Arrogant assumption of superiority may be read in the expanded chest, the stiffened neck, and the head thrown backward at a decided angle; or, subservient humility is seen in the forward-bending head and the wilted droop of the shoulders. And again, the difference between a real humility and the artificial deference which gallantry prompts is easily detected. The gallant's head and shoulders are bowed, but not in meekness, for there is a certain tension in the controlled muscles that suggests that he can "straighten up" at will, whereas the really humble man appears to have no power to lift his bowed head or equally drooping spirit.

The bending of the head and trunk, or the "bow," is the final and most active exponent of the spirit of the greeting. In its degrees and gradations are marked the degrees of deference, real or formal.

The bow begins at the head, and may observe the following gradations:

It may be an inclination of the head only, differing from a "nod" in the dignity of movement.

The inclination may extend to the shoulders, causing a slightly perceptible forward leaning. This inclination may continue to the waist line.

The extreme inclination bends the entire trunk from the hips. The legs are straight and the feet near together, in the attitude of "position" in free gymnastics.

In every bow, of whatever gradation, the movement should be slow, the eye steady, the face serene, and the whole demeanor expressive of polite interest in the object. An averted eye is disrespectful, and suggests insincerity or treachery. Not that it always means either; the "drooping eyelash" is affected by many women as gracefully expressive of feminine modesty. It may be coquettish, but there is nothing particularly womanly in never looking a man in the eye. Search the face that confronts you, and learn what manner of man this is whom you are receiving into your company and fellowship. If he quails under the inquisition, so much the worse for him. If he is worth looking at, it is a pity to miss the sight. Moreover, we more than half suspect that a woman's face is more attractive if her eyes occasionally "look up clear," instead of allowing the downcast lids to hide all of their vivacity and expression.

The gayety or the gravity of the countenance may serve to measure the cordiality or the reserve which respectively distinguish two "bows"—exactly alike as to movement, and equally courteous, the one inviting confidence, the other repelling familiarity. The time, the place, and the occasion, and the mutual relations of people, decide the essential character of the appropriate bow. It must always be the exponent of the nature and disposition of the individual, and of his relation to the person whom he greets. No one has precisely the same manner for any two people of his acquaintance—that is, if he has any vital manner at all. We are to others largely what they inspire us to be, and only lifeless indifference reduces "manner" to one same automatic manifestation. The life of a social greeting is in its exclusive spirit, and though the variations of outward manner are difficult to trace, it is a graceful and flattering thing to make this specialty of manner felt in every greeting extended. Perhaps, after all, it is the eye that controls this, as the spirit within controls the eye.

In general, the manner of a greeting should be optimistic, free from ungracious suspicion, and indicating a cheerful willingness to take people at their best; and even when most sternly forbidding intrusiveness, it should appear that the repulse is for good cause, and is not merely the expression of a capricious and unfounded arrogance. The latter quality, quite as often as not, characterizes the manner of snobs toward people who are infinitely their superiors in all that indicates character and breeding.

The "curtsey"—or "courtesy"—is a feature of the minuet, and revived with the old-fashioned dance. It is a pretty bit of old-time grace, and is appropriate in responding to formal introductions and greetings in the drawing-room, especially when paying respect to elderly people. It is most effective when executed in a costume of voluminous draperies. It is a woman's ceremonial; no man ever "curtseys." The regulation "bow" is the only "deference" that gracefully combines with a dress suit.

The courtesy is a strictly formal obeisance, and the courtly reverence which it embodies is something more abstract than concrete, not necessarily inspired by the person to whom its deference is shown. Like all greetings exchanged in the midst of crowds or in public places, it is somewhat impersonal in manner. Personal recognitions and distinctions are reserved for more private occasions. One's greetings to fellow-guests at a reception are uniformly affable, irrespective of personal preferences. Though our dearest friend and our direst foe both be present, we must not pointedly discriminate between them; we are not at liberty to use the parlors of our host for either a lover's tryst or a duelling-ground.

A guest's first duty on entering a parlor or drawing-room is to pay his or her respects to the hostess and the ladies who are receiving with her. Gentlemen should also make it a point to find the host as soon as possible, and extend to him a similar courtesy. The host, in turn, when not receiving formally with the hostess, roams at large, giving a hospitable greeting to each lady among his guests.

In America, when a lady and gentleman meet, after being duly introduced, it is the lady's privilege to bow first. This rule protects her from the intrusion of an unwelcome acquaintance. But when the acquaintance is established and mutually agreeable, the rule is immaterial.

In general, the elder or the more distinguished person bows first. But if the one who for any reason would be the proper one to take the initiative is known to be near-sighted, and liable to overlook an acquaintance unintentionally, it is more polite for the other person not to stand on ceremony.

It is interesting to note that on the continent of Europe the rule regarding recognitions is exactly reversed. The subject bows first to the king, the courtier to the lady; deference to a superior, rather than social equality, being expressed by the bow.

One of the moot questions of the day is, "When is it proper to introduce people to each other?" The strictest etiquette forbids casual social introductions, or the introducing of any two people at any time without the consent of both parties. It is argued that people who meet in a drawing-room as fellow-guests are introduced, by that mere fact, sufficiently for the social purposes of the hour; and they may engage in conversation, if they choose, without the least hesitancy; both understanding that this interchange involves no acquaintance beyond the present occasion. By this arrangement an awkward silence is averted, and it certainly seems as if the chief argument in favor of "introducing people" is met; since, with "the roof" as their transient introduction, they are perfectly at ease without personal introductions. When people are used to this idea it is altogether the most sensible and agreeable solution of the question; but many social assemblies demonstrate that a large number of people are yet waiting to be introduced, and not without some feeling of resentment when this ceremony is neglected. Let it be understood that any one is at liberty to speak to a fellow-guest without an introduction; also, that such a "talk" does not warrant any subsequent claim of acquaintance. If in the course of this impromptu chat mutual interest is awakened, either one may later seek an introduction in due form through some common friend.

On informal occasions, when few guests are present, especially in country towns, it may be more kindly and social to give personal introductions; and the good sense of this idea, probably, is founded on the fact that under these conditions a hostess can be reasonably sure that the acquaintance will be congenial. To the villager many of the extreme rules of etiquette are unreasonable, because the conditions that enforce them in town life are not present in the life of the quiet hamlet. The rule regarding introductions is one which must be modified to suit circumstances. It is one of the cases when various delicate considerations may justify exceptions. The lady who in her city home introduces nobody, may in her country home introduce everybody, if that seems best. In the matter of delicate exceptions we observe the most significant display of tact.

When introductions are made, gentlemen should be presented to ladies, younger people to older people, etc. The formula for introductions may be abbreviated to a mere announcement of the two names: "Mr. Smith—Mrs. Jones"—the pause and inflection filling the ellipsis; and really, upon the tone and manner depends the courtesy of the introduction so barren of phrasing. A formal presentation is made in this form:—"Miss Smith, allow me to present Mr. Jones."

Tact suggests that a hostess shall avoid bringing uncongenial people together; but if this unfortunately happens through ignorance or thoughtlessness, tact with equal urgency requires that the guests thus inauspiciously mingled shall not allow any one, not even the hostess herself, to discover the mistake. The same rule which allows perfect strangers to be agreeably social for an hour, and then part as strangers yet, certainly will grant to enemies a similar privilege.

The woman who conscientiously, and perfectly, hides her personal animosities rather than mar the harmony of the social circle, is doing her part to keep the world in tune.

The offer of the social right hand of fellowship is a tacit recognition of equality. Hand-shaking is said to be an American habit. Certainly the social conditions in a republic are favorable to such a custom. It is a pity that a mode so adapted to express the warmth and loyalty of friendship should be indiscriminately employed in casual greetings. The pressure of the hand should mean more than it can mean, when, as now, it is bestowed with equal alacrity on life-long friend and recent acquaintance.

Fastidious and sensitive people are rather conservative in hand-shaking. Etiquette allows considerable latitude. It is proper and graceful, but not required, for two men to shake hands when introduced. A lady does not usually shake hands with a new acquaintance, unless the circumstances of the introduction make her responsible for allowing special cordiality, as when a person is introduced to her in her own house. A host and hostess shake hands with a guest; they may omit to shake hands with the same person when they meet him elsewhere.

Whatever one's personal impulse, it is polite to defer to the evident preference of another; and to shake hands heartily if a hand is cordially extended, or to refrain from proffering the hand when reserve is evident in the manner of the other person.

Hand-shaking as a conventional ceremony should be as impersonal and as void of significance as possible. The clasp of the hand should be firm but brief; not hasty, yet not prolonged; and the fingers should relax and loosen their hold at once, not dropping listlessly, nor retaining a lingering pressure. When a lady gives her hand to a guest she expects to get it back again almost immediately, and in an uncrushed condition. To hold another's hand until he or she is conscious of the detaining grasp is a liberty that only trusted friends may take.

At the same time, a hearty manner of greeting may be the fashion in some places; and to meet it otherwise than cheerfully would seem churlish, according to local standards. It is always well-bred—as well as politic—to conform to local customs so far as is consistent with dignity.

Another custom, gradually going out, is the woman's fashion of kissing effusively each woman-friend of her acquaintance. This senseless habit has no excuse for being. When kissing is the language of impulsive affection, etiquette has nothing to say about it except to demand that the general public shall not be called upon to witness the ceremony. Public thoroughfares and thronged social assemblies we not the proper places for such demonstrations. Nothing is less interesting than other people's kisses, unless it be the gushing recital of private affairs with which these unguarded people also entertain every stranger within earshot. When scenes like these are observed at railroad stations and on board of trains when demonstrative leave-taking is in progress, we may forgive the exhibition since the circumstances warrant more than usual impulsiveness and forgetfulness of surroundings. But when the most common-place meeting of acquaintances, who see each other every day, is attended with these phenomena, etiquette, as well as common-sense, enters a severe protest. The kiss, which should be the most exclusive symbol of friendship, becomes the most insignificant form of greeting.

It is not proper, according to strict etiquette, to give the kiss of greeting in public places; but when near relatives or cherished friends do choose thus to greet each other, the kiss should be exchanged unobtrusively and with dignity; conversation on private matters should be conducted in subdued tones, and a well-bred gravity—quite consistent with cheerfulness—should characterize the manner.

It would be well if every person in society should register a solemn resolution never to kiss anybody unless prompted to do so by the irresistible impulse of affection. It is safe to say that nine-tenths of the kisses of social greeting would be dispensed with. The quality of the remaining tenth would doubtless be proportionately improved.



BEHAVIOR IN PUBLIC THOROUGHFARES

People understand and "make allowances" for many things that, to say the least, are thoughtless in the behavior of people whom they know well. Not so "the general public," which measures every man's conduct by the strict law of propriety, and accredits him with so much intelligence and refinement as his manners display—no more. And, happily, no less; for this "general public" is a dispassionate critic on the whole, and if it severely condemns our faults, it has no grudge against us to keep it from equally appreciating our merits.

A "regard for appearances" is—and should be—a leading consideration when ordering one's conduct in public. It is not enough that we know ourselves to be above reproach; we must take care that the stranger who observes us gets no impression to the contrary. Friends who know her irresistibly mirthful disposition, may excuse the girl who laughs boisterously on the street-car; but she will not be able to explain to the severe-looking stranger opposite that she did not do this to attract attention.

Conduct in public should be characterized by reserve. The promenade, the corridors of public buildings—post-office, railway stations, etc.—the elevators and arcades of buildings devoted to shops and offices; museums and picture-galleries, the foyer of the theatre, and the reading-rooms of public libraries may all be regarded as thorough fares, where the general public is our observant critic. Greetings between acquaintances casually meeting in such places should be quiet and conventional; friends should avoid calling each other by name, and conversation should be confined to such remarks as one does not object to have accidentally overheard. Subdued, but natural, tones of voice should be used, and the manner should be perfectly "open and above board." Cautious whispering is conspicuous, sometimes suspicious, and always ill-mannered. If confidential matters are to be discussed, the office or the parlor is the proper place for the conference.

When acquaintances meet on the promenade, recognitions are exchanged by a slight bow, with or without a spoken greeting.

On the crowded walk, if two acquaintances pass and re-pass each other several times in the course of the same promenade, it is not necessary to exchange greetings after the first meeting.

Canes and umbrellas should not be carried under the arm horizontally, endangering the eyes and ribs of other pedestrians.

A man, when bowing, lifts his hat in the following instances:

When bowing to a lady.

When, walking with a lady, he bows to another man of his acquaintance.

When bowing to an elderly man, or a superior in office.

When bowing to a man who is walking with a lady.

When, walking with a lady, he joins her in saluting any gentlemen of her acquaintance, but strangers to himself; or, when walking with gentlemen, he joins them in saluting a lady of their acquaintance, but a stranger to himself.

When offering any civility (as a seat in the street-car), to a lady, whether a stranger or an acquaintance.

When bidding good-bye to a lady after an "open-air" conference, when the hat has been worn. Punctilious etiquette requires a man to stand with head uncovered in the presence of ladies, until requested to replace the hat. But in our changeable climate, the risk of "taking cold" suggests the good sense of wearing the hat out-of-doors, and allowing the graceful lifting of the same at greeting and parting to express all the deference that the uncovered head is meant to symbolize.

The greater the crowd, the shorter the range at which greetings are exchanged. One might "halloo" to an old acquaintance forty rods distant, down a country lane; but on Broadway he bows only to the ones whom he meets point blank.

If two friends meet and pause to shake hands, they should step aside from the throng, and not blockade the sidewalk. Ladies should make these pauses very brief, and beware of entering into exhaustive interchanges of family news. Two men may linger, if they choose, and hold a few moments' conversation. But if a man meets a lady, and wishes to chat with her, he should, after greeting her, ask permission to join her, and walk with her for a short distance; he should by no means detain her standing on the sidewalk. He should not accompany her all the way to her destination, nor prolong such a casual conversation beyond a few moments. He should leave her at a corner, and lift his hat respectfully as he bids her good-bye.