Dear Jones [taking his seat beside her]: Talking about dinner cards—and billionaires, you heard of that dinner old Creasers gave to fifty-two of his friends of the new dispensation. I believe there was one poor fellow there whose wife had only half a peck of diamonds. He assembled his hordes in the picture-gallery, as the dining-room wasn’t large enough—you see, I didn’t build his house. And to carry out the novelty of the thing, his dinner cards were—
Baby Van Rensselaer: Playing-cards?
Dear Jones: Just so—but they were painted, “hand-painted” on satin.
Baby Van Rensselaer: And what did he take for himself—the king of diamonds?
Dear Jones: For the only time in his life he forgot himself—and he had to put up with the Joker.
Baby Van Rensselaer: What sort of people were there?
Dear Jones: Very good sort, indeed. There was a M. Meissonnier and M. Gérôme and a M. Corot—besides the man who sold them to him.
Everybody knows how a conversation runs on at dinner, when it does run on. On this occasion it ran on for seventy minutes and six courses. Dear Jones and Baby Van Rensselaer discussed the usual topics and the usual bill-of-fare. Then, as the butler served the bombe glacée à la Demidoff—
Baby Van Rensselaer: Oh, I’m so glad you liked her. We were at school together, you know, and she was with us when we went up the Saguenay last August.
Dear Jones: Why, I went up the Saguenay last August.