However, they do go away at last, that advantage a dinner at home
has over a dinner at the Club, there they often seem as if they would
never go away at all.
On the other hand, the wine is all right at the Club, I believe, for
I know nothing about wine myself. Some men talk of nothing else, and
seem to know the vintages without looking at the names on the bottles.
The worst of giving a dinner at the Club is, that I never know how
many men I have asked, nor even who they are. It is enough if I
remember the date. It might be a good thing to write these matters
down in a Diary, or on a big sheet of paper, pinned up in one's room.
I know I have written to ask some Americans whom I have not seen:
they brought letters of introduction. I forget their names--there is a
Professor who has written a novel, there is a General, I think, and a
Mad Doctor.
My best plan will be to stand about in the drawing-room, and try to
select them as they come in. Here is WILKINSON, who was at St. Jude's
with me: I shake hands with him warmly. He looks blank. It is not
WILKINSON, after all; it is a stranger, he is dining with somebody
else. Some other men have come in while I am apologising. One of them
comes up and says, "Mr. McDUFFER!" He must be an American. Which? He
tells me: he is the Mad Doctor. He introduces his countrymen; they
all say "Mr.
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