There were others than Pansy, however, who commented on what they called her superiority--the young men who appeared in the evening. A number of them, cousins of the Feldt dinner parties or more casual, tried to engage her sympathies in their persons and prospects. It was a society of early maturity. But, without apparent effort, she discouraged them, principally by her serene lack of interest. It was a fundamental part of her understanding of things that younger men were unprofitable; she liked far better the contemporaries of Moses Feldt. Reynold Chase had ceased his visits, but his place had been taken by another and still another emotionally gifted man. The present one was dark and imperturbable: they knew little of him beyond the facts that he had been a long while in the Orient, that his manner and French were unsurpassed, and that practically every considerable creative talent in New York was entertained in his rooms. Judith had been to one of his parties; and, the following morning in bed, she told Pansy and Linda the most remarkable things. “It would never do for Pansy,” she concluded; “but I must get Markue to ask you sometime, Linda. How old are you now? Well, that's practically sixteen, and you are very grown up. You would be quite sensational, in one of your plain white frocks, in his apartment. You'd have to promise not to tell your mother, though. She thinks I'm leading you astray now--the old dear. Does she think I am blind? I met a man last week, a friend of father's, who used to know her. Of course he wouldn't say anything, men are such idiots about that--like ostriches with their pasts buried and all the feathers sticking out--but there was a champagne expression in his smile.” Linda wondered, later, if she'd care to go to a party of Markue's. There was a great deal of drinking at such affairs; and though she rather liked cordials, crême de thé and Grand Marnier, even stronger things flavored with limes and an occasional frigid cocktail, she disliked--from a slight experience--men affected by drink. Judith had called her a constitutional prude; this, she understood, was a term of reproach; and she wondered if, applied to her, it were just. Usually it meant a religious person or one fussy about the edge of her skirt; neither of which she ever considered. She didn't like to sit in a corner and be hugged--even that she could now assert with a degree of knowledge--but it wasn't because she was shocked. Nothing, she told herself gravely, shocked her; only certain acts and moments annoyed her excessively. It was as if her mind were a crisp dress with ribbons which she hated to have mussed or disarranged.