met Breckenridge
Sewall. When Edith introduced me to society I was younger than the other
girls of my set, and to cover up my deficiency in years I affected a
veneer of worldly knowledge and sophistication that was misleading. It
almost deceived myself. At eighteen I had accepted as a sad truth the
wickedness of the world, and especially that of men. I was very blase,
very resigned--at least the two top layers of me were. Down underneath,
way down, I know now I was young and innocent and hopeful. I know now
that my first meeting with Breckenridge Sewall was simply one of the
stratagems that the contest I had entered required of me. I am convinced
that there was no thought of anything but harmless sport in my
encounter.

Breckenridge Sewall's mother was the owner of Grassmere, the largest and
most pretentious estate that crowns our hills. Everybody bowed down to
Mrs. Sewall. She was the royalty of the Hilton Summer Colony. Edith's
operations had not succeeded in piercing the fifty thousand dollar
wrought-iron fence that surrounded the acres of Grassmere. We had never
been honored by one of Mrs. F. Rockridge Sewall's heavily crested
invitations. We had drunk tea in the same drawing-room with her; we had
been formally introduced on one occasion; but that was all. She imported
most of her guests from New York and Newport. Even the Summer Colonists
considered an invitation from Mrs. Sewall a high mark of distinction.

Her only son Breckenridge was seldom seen in Hilton. He preferred
Newport, Aix les Bains, or Paris. It was reported among us girls that he
considered Hilton provincial and was distinctly bored at any attempt to
inveigle him into its society. Most of us had never met him, but we all
knew him by sight. Frequently during the summer months he might be seen
speeding along the wide state road that leads out into the region of
Grassmere, seated in his great, gray, deep-purring monster, hatless,
head ducked down, hair blown straight back and eyes half-closed to
combat the wind.

One afternoon Edith and I were invited to a late afternoon tea at
Idlewold, the summer residence of Mrs. Leonard Jackson. I was wearing a
new gown which Edith had given me. It had been made at an expensive
dressmaker's of hers in Boston. I remember my sister-in-law exclaimed as
we strolled up the cedar-lined walk together, "My, but you're stunning
in that wistaria gown. It's a joy to buy things for you, Ruth. You set
them off so. I just wond