Hostess—'Sh, 'sh, 'sh! I have a great disappointment for you all. Here is a telegram from my best singer, saying she is sick, and can't come. Now, we will have the pleasure of listening to Miss Jackson. Miss Jackson is a pupil of Madame Parcheesi, of Paris. (Singer whispers to her.) Oh, I beg your pardon! It's Madame Marcheesi.
Deaf Old Gentleman (seated by piano, talking to pretty girl)—I'd rather listen to you than hear this caterwauling. (Old Gentleman is dragged into corner and silenced.)
Young Woman (singing)—"Why do I sing? I know not, I know not! I can not help but sing. Oh, why do I sing?"
(Guests moan softly and demand of one another, Why does she sing?)
Woman Guest (to another)—Isn't that just the way?—their relatives are always dying, and it's sure to be wash-day or just when you expect company to dinner, and off they go to the funeral—
(Butler appears with trayful of punch-glasses.)
Male Guest (to another)—Thank the Lord! here's relief in sight. Let's drown our troubles.
The Other—It's evident you haven't sampled the Smythes' punch before. I tell you it's a crime to spoil a thirst with this stuff. Well, here's how.
Woman Guest (to neighbor)—I never saw Mrs. Smythe looking quite so hideous and atrociously vulgar before, did you?
Neighbor—Never! Why did we come?