And she did. She tried every shade of the rainbow that summer. She was extravagant.
“Helen, where are your economies?” Mrs. Adams exclaimed, as if she referred to certain necessary fastenings on the feminine character.
This was a day in August, when Helen wanted yet another hat and frock.
“They were never mine; they were yours, mother,” was the unfeeling reply. “I want the dress and the hat.”
“You have had two hats this season.”
“This one then will make three.”
Clothes had become her obsession, a silent way she had of extorting admiration from George.
“Well, if this keeps up I cannot afford to send you away to school this fall,” Mrs. Adams told her.
“I don’t want to go away to school. I am tired of being just taught. I want to do my own learning,” Helen informed her.
And when you consider how simple she was, this was a rather profound thing to say. The desire to chase our own knowledge is as old as Eve. But from then until now it has led to a sort of independent, sweating self-respect. We pay the highest price of all for it, as Helen was destined to learn—among other things. But I reckon it is worth it, if anything is worth what we pay for the experience by which life unfolds.