“Neither she nor Sir Walter come down to modern poetry—­or to alcoholic girls.”  His tone, on these last words, changed.

Again, as when he had said “an urgent matter,” I seemed to feel hovering above us what must be his ceaseless preoccupation; and I wondered if he had found, upon visiting Newport, Miss Hortense sitting and calling for “high-balls.”

I gave him a lead.  “The worst of it is that a girl who would like to behave herself decently finds that propriety puts her out of the running.  The men flock off to the other kind.”

He was following me with watching eyes.

“And you know,” I continued, “what an anxious Newport parent does on finding her girl on the brink of being a failure.”

“I can imagine,” he answered, “that she scolds her like the dickens.”

“Oh, nothing so ineffectual!  She makes her keep up with the others, you know.  Makes her do things she’d rather not do.”

“High-balls, you mean?”

“Anything, my friend; anything to keep up.”

He had a comic suggestion.  “Driven to drink by her mother!  Well, it’s, at any rate, a new cause for old effects.”  He paused.  It seemed strangely to bring to him some sort of relief.  “That would explain a great deal,” he said.

Was he thus explaining to himself his lady-love, or rather certain Newport aspects of her which had, so to speak, jarred upon his Kings Port notions of what a lady might properly do?  I sat on my gravestone with my wonder, and my now-dawning desire to help him (if improbably I could), to get him out of it, if he were really in it; and he sat on his gravestone opposite, with the path between us, and the little noiseless breeze rustling the white irises, and bearing hither and thither the soft perfume of the roses.  His boy face, lean, high-strung, brooding, was full of suppressed contentions.  I made myself, during our silence, state his possible problem:  “He doesn’t love her any more, he won’t admit this to himself; he intends to go through with it, and he’s catching at any justification of what he has seen in her that has chilled him, so that he may, poor wretch! coax back his lost illusion.”  Well, if that was it, what in the world could I, or anybody, do about it?

His next remark was transparent enough.  “Do you approve of young ladies smoking?”

I met his question with another:  “What reasons can be urged against it?”

He was quick.  “Then you don’t mind it?” There was actual hope in the way he rushed at this.

I laughed.  “I didn’t say I didn’t mind it.” (As a matter of fact I do mind it; but it seemed best not to say so to him.)

He fell off again.  “I certainly saw very nice people doing it up there.”

I filled this out.  “You’ll see very nice people doing it everywhere.”

“Not in Kings Port!  At least, not my sort of people!” He stiffly proclaimed this.

I tried to draw him out.  “But is there, after all, any valid objection to it?”