Belles on their Toes

you now. I've been smoking. I was going to tell you about it. I was going to tell you tomorrow—or the next day, anyway."
    "Smoking," said Mother. "So that's it." She choked and coughed. "Why there's enough smoke in this room to nominate Mister Harding."
    "I've been smoking too," Ernestine said miserably. "I was going to tell you, too."
    "It's my fault, I guess," Anne said. "I taught her how."
    It was obvious Mother didn't like it. Her first impulse may have been to weep, to protest, to implore, to scold. But she knew that what she said was going to be important in her future relationship with the girls. So she didn't weep, and she didn't say anything until she had taken time to think the matter through.
    "In my day," she finally began, "nice girls didn't smoke. I know that's all changed. It's a mistake for me to look at it in terms of what was right in my day.
    I still don't approve, and it wouldn't be honest for me to make believe I did."
    "You make me feel like a dog," said Anne, almost in tears. "If you want, I'll promise never to do it again."
    "I don't approve of promises like that," Mother told her. "Most people smoke nowadays, and it's not right when parents make children promise not to do things that most people do."
    "Besides, she might break the promise," Ernestine put in. "Those ciggies get a terrible hold on you, Mother."
    "When did you find that out, dear?" asked Mother, with some concern.
    "Today," said Ernestine.
    "That's not so bad, then," Mother smiled. "Maybe you can even break the hold—for a couple of years, anyway."
    "I could fight against it," Ernestine conceded.
    "I've been trying to think up some good arguments against smoking," Mother said, "but when you analyze them, they don't seem too convincing."
    She started to enumerate the arguments, counting them off on her fingers.
    "If you smoke you'll have a bad reputation. I hate to let go of that one, but I'll have to admit it doesn't apply any more. It's a shame, too!
    "It's bad for your health. That's open to debate. Not so bad as overeating, or not getting enough sleep.
    "It stunts your growth. I doubt it, and anyway you're both grown.
    "It's a filthy habit. It's not, really. Not half so filthy as gossiping or collecting old match boxes.
    "It's expensive. There!" Mother beamed triumphantly. 'There's a good argument. It is expensive, and can we afford it?"
    "We don't buy them," Anne said. "Our dates always have them."
    "There goes my last argument," Mother smiled, spreading her hands. "We'll just say that I don't like it, but that it's a prejudice. I don't believe in prejudices, so go ahead and light up, if you want to."
    Anne fished the cigarettes and ashtray from under the bed, and offered one to Ernestine.
    "Not right now," said Ernestine, whose throat and stomach were beginning to feel uneasy. "I believe my craving has been satisfied for this year—probably until I go to college."
    Anne helped herself to one, lighted it, and blew self-conscious smoke rings at the ceiling.
    "Where are your manners?" Mother asked. "Aren't you going to pass them to everybody? It looks as if it might be fun!"
    "No, sir," Ernestine protested.
    "Oh, no you don't," said Anne, putting the cigarette package behind her back. "I've led one member of the family astray today. I'm not going to be responsible for anyone else's downfall."
    Reluctantly, Anne stubbed out her smoke.
    "That's my last—if you'll excuse the word—'ciggie' until I get back to college," she declared. "The first thing you know, Jane might be smoking cigars. I believe it'd be safer to smoke in a nitroglycerine factory than around this house."

    With Morton at her disposal, Anne's social life was pretty well taken care of for the remainder of the summer. She still didn't like him very well, but nothing better came along, and he did have a Hupmobile and a motorboat.
    Ernestine searched diligently, but didn't find a man until a week before the summer was over. Then she kept him a dark secret.
    His name was Al Lynch, and he had a summer job down at the grocery store, where Ern had met him when she did the shopping. He was big, hearty, loud-talking and collegiate—a little too collegiate. He wore a wooly crimson sweater which sported a green block "S" letter and a bejeweled fraternity pin as large as a fifty-cent piece.
    All of us had seen Al, at one time or another, in the store, and he was not the sort of chap that one would easily overlook. Of all the sheiks on the island, his hair was the