I explained that I took my seat at the piano, and chatted, played, and sang, after the manner of John Parry.
"Is there no change of costumes? Don't you require any scenery or footlights?"
"No," I replied. "I'm simply like one of the guests, except that I do something and they don't."
"Oh," said the clerk, a little puzzled, "one of the guests? I must see Mr. A—— about that. I don't think he understands that."
"Well," I observed, "you had better see that he understands that before we proceed any further."
The head clerk said, "Good-night," and left the room, with a gait that seemed to hit the happy medium between the walk of Henry Irving and the stride of a pantomimic policeman.
The next night he returned, with profuse apologies, stating that Mr. A—— of course would receive me as a guest, and would feel honoured at making my acquaintance.
This was rather going to extremes, I thought; but the fault was on the right side. I booked the date, and eventually "attended the evening party." I shall never forget it. I was received as a guest—as the guest, in fact—and no mistake about it. My reception was enormous. Young Mr. A——, who had come of age, was, comparatively speaking, nowhere. I was introduced to nearly everybody—or, more strictly speaking, everybody was presented to me. My entertainments were never better received. They were given at intervals during the dancing. I danced with the most attractive dancers, whom the host compelled to dance with me.
I enjoyed it immensely.
I don't think they did, and am positive their displaced partners did not.