These days Don Juan's invitations to balls were somewhat hit or miss — his reputation proceeded him enough that some of the more reputable hostesses didn't feel any qualms about excluding him from the guest list, though of course there were plenty more who didn't care to be particular, knowing they could hardly be blamed for the behavior of any given guest if they had fifty or a hundred people attending. But his social calendar was more often filled with dinner parties now — not because the hostesses of dinner parties were any less scrupulous about their guest lists, but simply because there were a good deal more of them. People tended to only throw one or two balls in a season, which meant they were limited in number; people had dinner every day, and it only took two guests to make it a party. The hostess tonight was someone he'd known for a long time — since his days on tour — so he was less guarded than usual (which was a feat; his usual was not particularly guarded at all).

The man seated next to him greeted him just as he was approaching his chair. "I'm sure you are," he returned with a wide grin. He offered a hand to shake but waved it away a second later without giving the man a chance to take it, having decided he didn't want to delay sitting long enough to shake hands (and seated handshakes were such an awkward angle). "I'm excellent company. Hopefully you can say the same. I'd rather not do all the work during dinner."

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