There were two girls from whom she rather hoped for signs of real friendship.

She had sought them in the first place because they were "of the right sort," but she had come to like them for themselves and she believed they liked her for herself.

And so they did; but their time was filled with the relentless routine of the fashionable life, and they had not a moment to spare for their own personal lives; besides, Adelaide wouldn't have "fitted in" comfortably.
The men of their set would be shy of her now; the women would regard her as a waste of time.
Her beauty and her cleverness might have saved her, had she been of one of those "good families" whom fashionables the world over recognize, regardless of their wealth or poverty, because recognition of them gives an elegant plausibility to the pretense that Mammon is not the supreme god in the Olympus of aristocracy.

But--who were the Rangers?
They might be "all right" in Saint X, but where was Saint X?
Certainly, not on any map in the geography of fashion.
So Adelaide, sore but too lethargic to suffer, drifted drearily along, feeling that if Dory Hargrave were not under the influence of that brilliant, vanished past of hers, even he would abandon her as had the rest, or, at least, wouldn't care for her.

Not that she doubted his sincerity in the ideals he professed; but people deceived themselves so completely.