When you are over half an hour late at a dinner it is well to have an excuse. There are, just now, only two modish excuses: First, you were arrested for speeding your motor; second, you were playing bridge, and every hand seemed to be a spade or a club.
When a gentleman at a dinner upsets a plate of terrapin, a ruddy duck, or a bowl of vegetable salad upon the dress of the lady beside him, she should laugh merrily and should always be provided with some apt jest with which to carry off the little contretemps.
Fletcherites have lately added a new horror to dining out. These strange creatures seldom repay attention. The best that can be expected from them is the tense and awful silence which always accompanies their excruciating tortures of mastication.
There are two recherché methods for a bachelor to refuse a verbal dinner invitation. The first is to say that you are dining with a business associate. The second is to say that your engagement book is at home and that you will consult it immediately upon reaching there and will telephone. This gives you the desired opportunity of saying “No.” It is always easier over the wire than face to face.
In wriggling out of a dinner at the last moment in New York, it is chic to invent some mythical female relative in Philadelphia who has developed a sudden and alarming illness and has hastily summoned you to her bedside.