But he was off on a preceding speculation. “A mother or any parent,” he said, “might encourage the daughter to smoke, too. And the girl might take it up so as not to be thought peculiar where she was, and then she might drop it very gladly.”
I became specific. “Drop it, you mean, when she came to a place where doing it would be thought—well, in bad style?”
“Or for the better reason,” he answered, “that she didn’t really like it herself.”
“How much you don’t ‘really like it’ yourself!” I remarked.
This time he was slow. “Well—well—why need they? Are not their lips more innocent than ours? Is not the association somewhat—?”
“My dear fellow,” I interrupted, “the association is, I think you’ll have to agree, scarcely of my making!”
“That’s true enough,” he laughed. “And, as you say, very nice people do it everywhere. But not here. Have you ever noticed,” he now inquired with continued transparency, “how much harder they are on each other than we are on them?”
“Oh, yes! I’ve noticed that.” I surmised it was this sort of thing he had earlier choked himself off from telling me in his unfinished complaint about his aunt; but I was to learn later that on this occasion it was upon the poor boy himself and not on the smoking habits of Miss Rieppe, that his aunt had heavily descended. I also reflected that if cigarettes were the only thing he deprecated in the lady of his choice, the lost illusion might be coaxed back. The trouble was that deprecated something fairly distant from cigarettes. The cake was my quite sufficient trouble; it stuck in my throat worse than the probably magnified gossip I had heard; this, for the present, I could manage to swallow.
He came out now with a personal note. “I suppose you think I’m a ninny.”
“Never in the wildest dream!”