Those who accept a social invitation virtually pledge themselves to bear a part in making the entertainment an agreeable success. Whether one's talent lies in conversation, or music, or in the rare gift for commingling and promoting harmonies in a social gathering, he or she should feel bound to make some effort to add to the pleasure of the occasion. Young men who attend private balls should be obliging about dancing, and amiably assist the hostess in finding partners for the shy or unattractive girls, who are liable to be neglected by selfish young people.

Not to make an effort to contribute to the success of the affair is a negative fault, perhaps. But what shall we say of those whose influence is positively adverse?—those who attend a party with curious eyes bent upon picking flaws, and who indulge in jealous depreciation; or who, in a spirit of social rivalry, make a note of "points," with a view to outdoing the hostess in the near future. Such a spirit—and its presence is not easily veiled—is a veritable Achan in the camp; and a few such rude people can poison the atmosphere of an otherwise genial reception. Verily, they have their reward, for the stamp of ill-breeding is set on their querulous little faces.

But, if such spirits contribute nothing to the social fund,—because they have nothing to contribute,—you, who have, must do double duty. And nothing is more needed than tactful conversation.

The oddest criticism that I have ever encountered from a reviewer was the laconic and cynical remark (commenting upon my rather altruistic belief in the duty of giving one's best thought to the conversational circle), that "Nowadays, people don't talk: if they have any good ideas, they save them and write them out and sell them." The critic implied that, otherwise, in this age of universal scribbling, some plagiarist would appropriate these ideas and hurry them to the magazine market before the original thinker had time to fix the jewel in a setting of his own.

Of course, the little brain thief is common enough; but it had never occurred to me to be so wary. It struck me "with the full force of novelty," that any one should be deterred from speech by such a consideration. I have since wondered whether that particular phase of serpent-wisdom accounts for the non-committal silences with which some well-known wits entertain the social circle, the while a despairing hostess is making the best of such help as a few lively chatterboxes can give her. Not that I ever saw any notably superior talkers struck dumb in this way; Richard Brinsley Sheridan never was, if I recall correctly. Why should you be? If your bright idea is stolen, you can spare it; if you are truly bright, you have many more where that one came from.

But beware of forced brightness. Wit is nothing if not spontaneous. If nature has not endowed you with the instantaneous perception of contrasts and incongruities, out of which flashes the swift conceit called wit, do not imagine you are "dull" or uninteresting. There are other gifts and graces less superficial, far more rare, and ultimately more influential, than wit.

And though you are witty, do not talk nonsense over-much. Remember that it is the "little nonsense now and then" that is "relished by the best of men." It is perilously easy to weary people with the "smart" style of talk. But let your cheerful sense, grave or gay, be as good an offering to your friends as you know how to make. Your next special occasion—for which you might have "saved" all these things—will lose nothing of value. It may rather gain fourfold, by the reflex inspiration that replenishes every unselfish outpouring of the nobler social spirit.