“Do you mean that other women spend that much on clothes?” he demanded.
“Of course,” said Oliver, “hundreds of them. Some spend fifty thousand—I know several who go over a hundred.”
“It’s monstrous!” Montague exclaimed.
“Fiddlesticks!” was the other’s response. “Why, thousands of people live by it—wouldn’t know anything else to do.”
Montague said nothing to that. “Can you afford to have Alice compete with such women indefinitely?” he asked.
“I have no idea of her doing it indefinitely,” was Oliver’s reply. “I simply propose to give her a chance. When she’s married, her bills will be paid by her husband.”
“Oh,” said the other, “then this layout is just for her to be exhibited in.”
“You may say that,” answered Oliver,—“if you want to be foolish. You know perfectly well that parents who launch their daughters in Society don’t figure on keeping up the pace all their lifetimes.”
“We hadn’t thought of marrying Alice off,” said Montague.
To which his brother replied that the best physicians left all they could to nature. “Suppose,” said he, “that we just introduce her in the right set, and turn her loose and let her enjoy herself—and then cross the next bridge when we come to it?”