WHY DINNER WAS LATE
The chief horror of every week-end is the lady guest who comes without a maid, borrows the hostess’s, monopolizes her wholly and leaves the hostess marooned in her boudoir, unnerved, unnoticed, and unhooked. This migratory blight always wears a gown out of which she can only escape with the aid of Harry Houdini. In the meantime, below stairs, the pommes-soufflés have collapsed and—which is a great deal more important—the cook is getting ready to do likewise.
