On the other hand the widespread familiarity with these problems, which has been engendered simply for pecuniary profit by magazine literature in the form of essays, fiction and even verse, is by no means an undiluted blessing—­particularly if the accentuation of the author is on the roses lining the path of dalliance quite as much as on the destruction to which it leads.  The very warning against evil may turn out to be in effect only a hint that it is readily accessible.  One does not leave the candy box open beside the baby even if the infant has received the most explicit instructions as to the probable effect of too much sugar upon its tiny kidneys.  Moreover, the knowledge of the prevalence of certain vices suggests to the youthful mind that what is so universal must also be rather excusable, or at least natural.

It seems to me that, while there is at present a greater popular knowledge of the high cost of sinning, there is at the same time a greater tolerance for sin itself.  Certainly this is true among the people who make up the circle of my friends.  “Wild oats” are regarded as entirely a matter of course.  No anecdote is too broad to be told openly at the dinner table; in point of fact the stories that used to be whispered only very discreetly in the smoking room are now told freely as the natural relishes to polite conversation.  In that respect things are pretty bad.

One cannot help wondering what goes on inside the villa on Rhode Island Avenue when the eighteen-year-old daughter of the house remarks to the circle of young men and women about her at a dance:  “Well, I’m going to bed—­seule!” The listener furtively speculates about mama.  He feels quite sure about papa.  Anyhow this particular mot attracted no comment.  Doubtless the young lady was as far above suspicion as the wife of Caesar; but she and her companions in this particular set have an appalling frankness of speech and a callousness in regard to discussing the more personal facts of human existence that is startling to a middle-aged man like myself.

I happened recently to overhear a bit of casual dinner-table conversation between two of the gilded ornaments of the junior set.  He was a boy of twenty-five, well known for his dissipations, but, nevertheless, regarded by most mothers as a highly desirable parti.

“Oh, yes!” he remarked easily.  “They asked me if I wanted to go into a bughouse, and I said I hadn’t any particular objection.  I was there a month.  Rum place!  I should worry!”

“What ward?” she inquired with polite interest.

“Inebriates’, of course,” said he.

I am inclined to attribute much of the questionable taste and conduct of the younger members of the fast set to neglect on the part of their mothers.  Women who are busy all day and every evening with social engagements have little time to cultivate the friendship of their daughters.  Hence the girl just coming out is left to shift for herself, and she soon discovers that a certain risque freedom in manner and conversation, and a disregard of convention, will win her a superficial popularity which she is apt to mistake for success.