“I know it. And we want to keep on being happy, don't we. So we must not decline anyone's invitation. We must go, go, go, all the time.”
“But some of the invitations are from people I scarcely know at all. And some I don't like.”
“That makes no difference. They may be of value to you in your campaign, or socially, or somehow. Don't you see, Mother? In politics or society one wishes to advance, to climb higher all the time. And to do that one must use one's acquaintances as rounds in the ladder. Use them; get something from them; pretend to love them, no matter whether you really hate them or not. They may hate you, but they want to use you. That's part of the game, Mother.”
This was worldly advice to be given by a young lady scarcely out of college. And it sounded so unlike Gertrude. But, then, Gertrude had changed, was changing more and more daily.
“We don't entertain enough,” went on the adviser. “We should be giving some affair or other at least once a week. Invite everybody you know—everyone but the Lake crowd, of course. I'll make out a list of eligibles to-day and we'll give an 'At Home' next week.”
“But, Gertie—the expense. It costs so dreadfully. We're not rich; that is, not very rich.”
“No matter. Everyone thinks we are. If they didn't, most of them would cut us dead to-morrow. We must pretend to be very rich. I'll make out the list. Mr. Holway will help me. He is coming to call this evening.”
Serena looked more troubled than ever.
“Gertie,” she said earnestly, “I think I ought—yes, I am going to warn you against that Mr. Holway. I don't like your having him call or being seen in his company.”
“You don't! I am surprised. I'm sure he is very polite and agreeable. He belongs to the best club and he dresses well, and as to society—why, he is in the very heart of it; our kind of society, I mean.”