"I think," continued Mr. Rutledge, "that she is still rather slighter than you are; though your additional shade of health and robustness will, I fancy, soon be lost, under the influence of town habits and constant dissipation."
"Are they very gay? Does my aunt go a great deal into society?" I asked.
"They did in Paris, and I fancy it will be the same in New York. In fact, there is little doubt of it."
"I wonder," I said, leaning my cheek on my hand, and looking thoughtfully into the fire—"I do so wonder whether I shall like it."
"Ah! my child," he said rather sadly, "you need not waste much wonder upon that; you will like it but too well. Wonder, with a shudder and a prayer, how you will bear the ordeal."
He sighed, and pressed his hand for a moment before his eyes; then catching my wistful look, he continued in a lighter tone:
"But I do not mean to frighten you; people, you know, are very apt to preach against what they are tired of, and inveigh against the world after they have 'been there,' and have seen its best and its worst, and tasted eagerly of both; and have spent years in its service, and are only disgusted when they find that it will yield them no more. They have no right to discourage you young things, just on the threshold, eager and impatient for you don't know what of glory and delight."
"Why, yes; I'm sure they have a right to warn us, if they see our danger. I am sure it is their duty."
"Oh!" he said, with one of his quick laughs, "it would be a thankless task; they would not be heeded. You all have to go through it, and how you come out is only a question of degree—some more, and some less tainted—according to the stuff you're made of."
"I don't want to believe that."