A mad friend of mine will have it that the characteristic of the age is Make-Believe.  He argues that all social is founded on make-believe.  A servant enters to say that Mr. and Mrs. Bore are in the drawing-room.  
“Oh, damn!” says the man.
 
“Hush!” says the woman.  “Shut the door, Susan.  How often am I to tell you never to leave the door open?”
 
The man creeps upstairs on tiptoe and shuts himself in his study.  The woman does things before a looking-glass, waits till she feels she is mistress of herself not to show her feelings, and then enters the drawing-room with outstretched hands and the look of one welcoming an angel’s visit.  She says how delighted she is to see the Bores—how good it was of them to come.  Why did they not bring more Bores with them?  Where is naughty Bore junior?  Why does he never come to see her now?  She will have to be really angry with him.  And sweet little Flossie Bore?  Too young to pay calls!  Nonsense.  An “At Home” day is not worth having where all the Bores are not.
 
The Bores, who had hoped that she was out—who have only called because the book told them that they must call at least four times in the season, explain how they have been trying and trying to come.
 
“This afternoon,” recounts Mrs. Bore, “we were to come.  ‘John, dear,’ I said this morning, ‘I shall go and see dear Mrs. Bounder this afternoon, no matter what happens.’”
 
The idea conveyed is that the Prince of Wales, on calling at the Bores, was told that he could not come in.  He might call again in the evening or come some other day.
 
That afternoon the Bores were going to enjoy themselves in their own way; they were going to see Mrs. Bounder.
 
“And how is Mr. Bounder?” demands Mrs. Bore.
 
Mrs. Bounder mute for a moment, straining her ears.  She can hear him creeping past the door on his way downstairs.  She hears the front door softly opened and closed-to.  She wakes, as from a dream.  She has been thinking of the sorrow that will fall on Bounder when he returns home later and learns what he has missed.
 
And thus it is, not only with the Bores and Bounders, but even with us who are not Bores or Bounders.  Society in all ranks is founded on the make-believe that everybody is charming; that we are delighted to see everybody; that everybody is delighted to see us; that it is so good of everybody to come; that we are at the thought that they really must go now.
 
Which would we rather do—stop and finish our cigar or hasten into the drawing-room to hear Miss sing?  Can you ask us?  We tumble over each other in our hurry.  Miss Screecher would really rather not sing; but if we insist—We do insist.  Miss Screecher, with pretty , consents.  We are careful not to look at one another.  We sit with our eyes on the ceiling.  Miss Screecher finishes, and rises.
 
“But it was so short,” we say, so soon as we can be heard above the applause.  Is Miss Screecher quite sure that was the whole of it?  Or has she been playing tricks upon us, the naughty lady, us of a verse?  Miss Screecher assures us that the fault is the composer’s.  But she knows another.  At this hint, our faces lighten again with gladness.  We clamour for more.
 
Our host’s wine is always the most extraordinary we have ever tasted.  No, not another glass; we dare not—doctor’s orders, very strict.  Our host’s cigar!  We did not know they made such cigars in this workaday world.  No, we really could not smoke another.  Well, if he will be so pressing, may we put it in our pocket?  The truth is, we are not used to high smoking.  Our hostess’s coffee!  Would she to us her secret?  The baby!  We hardly trust ourselves to speak.  The usual baby—we have seen it.  As a rule, to be , we never could detect much beauty in babies—have always held the usual about them to be insincere.  But this baby!  We are almost on the point of asking them where they got it.  It is just the kind we wanted for ourselves.  Little Janet’s recitation: “A Visit to the Dentist!”  Hitherto the amateur reciter has not appealed to us.  But this is genius, surely.  She ought to be trained for the stage.  Her mother does not altogether approve of the stage.  We plead for the stage—that it may not be deprived of such talent.
 
Every bride is beautiful.  Every bride looks charming in a simple costume of—for further particulars see local papers.  Every marriage is a cause for universal rejoicing.  With our wine-glass in our hand we picture the ideal life we know to be in store for them.  How can it be otherwise?  She, the daughter of her mother.  (Cheers.)  He—well, we all know him.  (More cheers.)  Also involuntary from ill-regulated young man at end of table, suppressed.
 
We carry our make-believe even into our religion.  We sit in church, and in voices with pride, mention to the , at stated , that we are worms—that there is no good in us.  This sort of thing, we gather, is expected of us; it does us no harm, and is supposed to please.
 
We make-believe that every woman is good, that every man is honest—until they insist on forcing us, against our will, to observe that they are not.  Then we become very angry with them, and explain to them that they, being sinners, are not folk fit to mix with us perfect people.  Our grief, when our rich aunt dies, is hardly to be borne.  Drapers make fortunes, us to express feebly our desolation.  Our only is that she has gone to a better world.
 
Everybody goes to a better world when they have got all they can out of this one.
 
We stand around the open grave and tell each other so.  The clergyman is so assured of it that, to save time, they have written out the formula for him and had it printed in a little book.  As a child it used to surprise me—this fact that everybody went to hea............