Ever so many romantic ones have been publishing their memoris of late, and the Vagabond by force of example finds his own thoughts winging their way back a few evenings ago to live again a leaf from his own carefree yet, he hopes, not too unfruitful life. We learn only as we amuse ourselves--even if the form of amusement turns out to be a Deb party. So the happy Vagabond girded up his lions, got out his topper, and was off for the dance.

There was the line, the widows from Winsor: "Oh, how do you do, Mr. Smythe. Indeed I do remember you!" But it's Smith, Madam; as in Smithsonian, you know. "Smithsonian? Indeed I have seen it. Rare specimens there; yes, yes." And there were the ushers unctuous and important with gardenias. There was the music of an orchestra, and the husky crone of a singer: There was "Ah, Sweet Mystery Of Life", there was, "The Lady In Red". There were loud voices, there were louder glances. There were immaculate dress shirts, and there was the Vagabond's. There were laughing faces, and cracking smiles. There were great cascading bouquets, there were wall flowers and pansies. There were tinkling glasses and the dull thud of a bass drum. There were broken hearts, there was the boredom of a thousand. There was a moonlite terrace, there were also chaperons. There were long embrassing conversations; there were short embracing silences. There were those who cut in; there were those who, most unfortunately, did not. There was an evening mist; there were missed chances. There were scrambled eggs; there were scrambled dances. There were the best of times, and there were th worst of times. And there was the line, the widows from Winsor; "Good night, Mr. Jones. We're home on Mondays." But it's Smith, Madam. As in Smithsonian, you know. "Smithsonian? Indeed, I have seen it. Rare specimen's there; yes, yes."