He launched as a topic of conversation the modern young person, and at just that moment I was grateful to him, although it is a subject which, as far as I am concerned, has been thoroughly talked out. Ordinarily I find myself desperately bored with the solemn and terrified generalities one hears. I like the young people of to-day, but as for the modern young person, considered as something essentially new, a product of post-war conditions or a judgment upon our sins, I simply don’t believe the little monster exists. I didn’t, however, express myself in this destructive manner to Mr. Smith. I coddled the topic along. Anything was welcome that would keep us away from the tangled skein of fact that Judy seemed involved in. “Manners change, I admit,” I said, “but manners are by definition conventional conduct, conduct which has no significance one way or the other. Think of this wedding. Judy’s going to be married in the garden, and her bridesmaids, from what I hear of the costumes, are going to look more or less like a chorus in a light opera. It will be an amazingly pretty picture, no doubt. But Victoria in her day would as soon have thought of being married in a bathing suit. Victoria would have been horrified at the idea of sleeping the night before her wedding under the same roof with the man she was going to marry. Victoria was supposed to be shy, so she acted as if she were. But that doesn’t mean that she was any finer or cleaner-minded than Judy is. No, the younger generation....” My argument was interrupted. “Here comes a sample of it now,” said Mr. Smith, who was gazing down the path. “Heavens, that’s not Punch, is it?” It was though, and he was a good sight; hatless as always, and clad in khaki shirt and trousers which went well with his brown skin. He was carrying his little target rifle. There was no doubt that he was coming to make me a visit, for he waved gaily toward the summer-house as he came along. He and I both got a surprise, though, out of his meeting with Mr. Smith; Punch because he hadn’t had the least idea he’d find him with me, and I over the discovery that they were old friends. They greeted each other with enthusiasm. “I hadn’t realized you were so well acquainted,” said I. “Oh, yes,” Punch told me; “we’re very old friends. Mr. Smith was the nicest man in Paris that winter we lived there. He used to take me around and show me things. “My, but I’m glad you’re here,” he went on, turning back to the old gentleman. “It comes out just right. But why aren’t you over at our house?” “Your mother asked me to take him in,” I explained. “She thought you’d be too wild for him over there; too much row, late hours and so on.” “Ho!” said Punch derisively to his very old friend, “there couldn’t be too much row for you, could there?” I thought I saw a troubled look coming into the boy’s eyes, so I changed the subject. “You out shooting rabbits?” I asked. “No,” he said. “I haven’t shot anything yet.”