“Oh, I suppose we must recognise facts. Rupert, you are quite right,” said Mrs. Templeton, “there must be social distinctions and there are classes. I mean,” she added, as if to forestall the outburst she saw gathering behind her younger daughter's closed lips, “we must inevitably draw to our own set by our natural or acquired tastes and by our traditions and breeding.”
“All very well in England, Mamma. I suppose dear Uncle Arthur and our dear cousins would hardly feel called upon to recognise Annette as a friend.”
“Why should they?” challenged Rupert.
“My dear Patricia,” said her father, mildly patient, “you are quite wrong. Our people at home, your uncle Arthur, I mean, and your cousins, and all well-bred folk, do not allow class distinctions to limit friendship. Friends are chosen on purely personal grounds of real worth and—well, congeniality.”
“Would Uncle Arthur, or rather, Aunt Alicia have Annette to dinner, for instance?” demanded Patricia.
“Certainly not,” said her mother promptly.
“She would not do anything to embarrass Annette,” said her father.
“Oh, Dad, what a funk. That is quite unworthy of you.”
“Would she be asked here now to dinner?” said Rupert. “I mean,” he added in some confusion, “would it be, ah, suitable? You know what I mean.”
“She has been here. Don't you remember, Mamma? She was often here. And every time she came she was the cleverest thing, she was the brightest, the most attractive girl in the bunch.” Her mother's eyebrows went up. “In the party, I mean. And the most popular. Why, I remember quite well that Rupert was quite devoted to her.”