"But—" said Mrs. Cuberle.
"This much you understand, doubtless. Now, Mary, what you object to is that our society offers you, and the others like you, no convincing logic on the side of waiting until age nineteen. It is all taken for granted, and you want to know why! It is that simple. A non-technical explanation will not suffice—mercy no! The modern child wants facts, solid technical data, to satisfy her every question. And that, as you can both see, will take a good deal of reorganizing."
"But—" said Mary.
"The child is upset, nervous, tense; she acts strange, peculiar, odd, worries you and makes herself ill because it is beyond our meagre powers to put it across. I tell you, what we need is a whole new basis for learning. And, that will take doing. It will take doing, Mrs. Cuberle. Now, don't you worry about Mary, and don't you worry, child. I'll prescribe some pills and—"
"No, no, doctor! You're all mixed up," cried Mrs. Cuberle.
"I beg your pardon, Madam?"
"What I mean is, you've got it wrong. Tell him, Mary, tell the doctor what you told me."
Mary shifted uneasily in the chair.
"It's that—I don't want it."
The doctor's well-proportioned jaw dropped.