“They came in gray tailored frocks with braided edges and striped trousers …

This is how the rich experience the war: Last night I was at last ready to tell Mother that was I leaving. But she’d gone to dinner at Churchill’s, attending one of the patriotic reviews that had become the thing in dinning entertainment. When she came home she was escorted by several young men in Khaki uniform, their faces were flushed from the night air and too much liquor. And with them were their girls, all clothed in dresses that went up to their calves, spangles shimmered around their necks, and their mouths were painted dark red. They all looked the same, reflected like chimeras in the long Venetian mirror that adorned the library wall. They laughed unceasingly and begged mother to turn on the radio. “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary” was blasting and I longed to escape the assault of the night. The young men twirled their girls around until midnight. Then they all kissed Mother on the cheek and yelled adieu and we’re off to see the Kaiser. Mother was high in color, more than I had seen her in ages, as though the war had given her back her youth.”

Of course I completely blamed myself; that is my default mode. But it turned out to just be his teeth.

It sucks, but I love your perspective–better bad teeth than bad something more important.