Mrs. Maynard and Mrs. Kingsley, as usual, received Mrs. Wrapp’s caustic and rather crude opinions with as good grace as they could muster.  Plain it was that they felt themselves a shade removed from this younger and newer member of society.  But they could not show direct antagonism to her influence any more than they could understand the common sense and justice of her arguments.

“No one will ever invite him again,” declared Mrs. Maynard.

“He’s done in Middleville,” echoed Mrs. Kingsley.  And that perhaps was a gauntlet thrown.

“Rot!” exclaimed Mrs. Wrapp, with more force than elegance.  “I’ll invite Daren Lane to my house....  You women don’t get the point.  Daren Lane is a soldier come home to die.  He gave himself.  And he returns to find all—­all this sickening—­oh, what shall I call it?  What does he care whether or not we invite him?  Can’t you see that?”

“There’s a good deal in what you say,” returned Mrs. Kingsley, influenced by the stronger spirit.  “Maybe Lane hated the new styles.  I don’t blame him much.  There’s something wrong with our young people.  The girls are crazy.  The boys are wild.  Few of them are marrying—­or even getting engaged.  They’ll do anything.  The times are different.  And we mothers don’t know our daughters.”

“Well, I know mine” returned Mrs. Maynard, loftily.  “What you say may be true generally, but there are exceptions.  My daughter has been too well brought up.”

“Yes, Margie is well-bred,” retorted Mrs. Wrapp.  “We’ll admit she hasn’t gone to extremes, as most of our girls have.  But I want to observe to you that she has been a wall-flower for a year.”

“It certainly is a problem,” sighed Mrs. Kingsley.  “I feel helpless—­out of it.  Elinor does precisely what she wants to do.  She wears outlandish clothes.  She smokes and—­I’m afraid drinks.  And dances—­dreadfully. Just like the other girls—­no better, no worse.  But with all that I think she’s good.  I feel the same as Jane feels about that.  In spite of this—­this modern stuff I believe all the girls are fundamentally the same as ten years ago.”

“Well, that’s where you mothers get in wrong,” declared Mrs. Wrapp with her vigorous bluntness.  “It’s your pride.  Just because they’re your daughters they are above reproach....  What have you to say about the war babies in town?  Did you ever hear of that ten years ago?  You bet you didn’t.  These girls are a speedy set.  Some of them are just wild for the sake of wildness.  Most of them have to stand for things, or be left out altogether.”

“What in the world can we do?” queried Mrs. Maynard, divided between distress and chagrin.

“The good Lord only knows,” responded Mrs. Wrapp, herein losing her assurance.  “Marriage would save most of them.  But Helen doesn’t want to marry.  She wants to paint pictures and be free.”

“Perhaps marriage is a solution,” rejoined Mrs. Maynard thoughtfully.