He had a comic suggestion. “Driven to drink by her mother! Well, it’s, at any rate, a new cause for old effects.” He paused. It seemed strangely to bring to him some sort of relief. “That would explain a great deal,” he said. Was he thus explaining to himself his lady-love, or rather certain Newport aspects of her which had, so to speak, jarred upon his Kings Port notions of what a lady might properly do? I sat on my gravestone with my wonder, and my now-dawning desire to help him (if improbably I could), to get him out of it, if he were really in it; and he sat on his gravestone opposite, with the path between us, and the little noiseless breeze rustling the white irises, and bearing hither and thither the soft perfume of the roses. His boy face, lean, high-strung, brooding, was full of suppressed contentions. I made myself, during our silence, state his possible problem: “He doesn’t love her any more, he won’t admit this to himself; he intends to go through with it, and he’s catching at any justification of what he has seen in her that has chilled him, so that he may, poor wretch! coax back his lost illusion.” Well, if that was it, what in the world could I, or anybody, do about it? His next remark was transparent enough. “Do you approve of young ladies smoking?” I met his question with another: “What reasons can be urged against it?” He was quick. “Then you don’t mind it?” There was actual hope in the way he rushed at this. I laughed. “I didn’t say I didn’t mind it.” (As a matter of fact I do mind it; but it seemed best not to say so to him.) He fell off again. “I certainly saw very nice people doing it up there.” I filled this out. “You’ll see very nice people doing it everywhere.” “Not in Kings Port! At least, not my sort of people!” He stiffly proclaimed this. I tried to draw him out. “But is there, after all, any valid objection to it?” 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?”