But Kenneth’s history, summed up, was not a bit less edifying, was not indeed half as unpleasant, as that of many of the men, less rich and less prominent than he, who were marrying lovely girls everywhere, with the full consent and approval of parents and guardians.  Susan had seen the newspaper accounts of the debauch that preceded young Harry van Vleet’s marriage only by a few hours; had seen the bridegroom, still white-faced and shaking, lead away from the altar one of the sweetest of the debutantes.  She had heard Rose St. John’s mother say pleasantly to Rose’s promised husband, “I asked your Chinese boy about those little week-end parties at your bungalow, Russell; I said, ’Yoo, were they pretty ladies Mr. Russ used to have over there?’ But he only said ’No can ‘member!’”

“That’s where his wages go up!” the gentleman had responded cheerfully.

And, after all, Susan thought, looking on, Russell Lord was not as bad as the oldest Gerald boy, who married an Eastern girl, an heiress and a beauty, in spite of the fact that his utter unfitness for marriage was written plain in his face; or as bad as poor Trixie Chauncey’s husband, who had entirely disappeared from public view, leaving the buoyant Trixie to reconcile two infant sons to the unknown horrors and dangers of the future.

If Kenneth drank, after his marriage, Mycroft would take care of him, as he did now; but Susan honestly hoped that domesticity, for which Kenneth seemed to have a real liking, would affect him in every way for good.  She had not that horror of drink that had once been hers.  Everybody drank, before dinner, with dinner, after dinner.  It was customary to have some of the men brighten under it, some overdo it, some remain quite sober in spite of it.  Susan and Emily, like all the girls they knew, frequently ordered cocktails instead of afternoon tea, when, as it might happen, they were in the Palace or the new St. Francis.  The cocktails were served in tea-cups, the waiter gravely passed sugar and cream with them; the little deception was immensely enjoyed by everyone.  “Two in a cup, Martini,” Emily would say, settling into her seat, and the waiter would look deferentially at Susan, “The same, madam?”

It was a different world from her old world; it used a different language, lived by another code.  None of her old values held here; things she had always thought quite permissible were unforgivable sins; things at which Auntie would turn pale with horror were a quietly accepted part of every-day life.  No story was too bad for the women to tell over their tea-cups, or in their boudoirs, but if any little ordinary physical misery were alluded to, except in the most flippant way, such as the rash on a child’s stomach, or the preceding discomforts of maternity, there was a pained and disgusted silence, and an open snub, if possible, for the woman so crude as to introduce the distasteful topic.