A few papas were in the supper-room, sitting among the
_debris_ of game. A few young non-dancing husbands sat beneath gas
unnaturally bright, reading whatever chance book was at hand, and
thinking of the young child at home waiting for mama who was dancing the
"German" below. A few exhausted matrons sat in the robing-room, tired,
sad, wishing Jane would come up; assailed at intervals by a vague
suspicion that it was not quite worth while; wondering how it was they
used to have such good times at balls; yawning, and looking at their
watches; while the regular beat of the music below, with sardonic
sadness, continued. At last Jane came up, had had the most glorious
time, and went down with mamma to the carriage, and so drove home. Even
the last Jane went--the last noisy youth was expelled--and Mr. and Mrs.
Potiphar, having duly performed their biennial social duty, dismissed
the music, ordered the servants to count the spoons, and an hour or two
after daylight went to bed. Enviable Mr. and Mrs. Potiphar!
We are now prepared for the great moral indignation of the friend who
saw us eating our _dinde aux truffes_ in that remarkable supper-room.
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