One afternoon, as the heating apparatus in my sitting-room was out of order, I went down to the library and was lying on the lounge thinking out some of the day’s business complications. I was presently disturbed by the sound of excited voices—my wife’s and my daughter Helen’s. The noise came from the small reception-room adjoining the library. It is very annoying to hear voices, especially agitated voices, and not to be able to distinguish the words. I rose and went quietly to the connecting door and listened.
“I won’t have it, Helen!” my wife was saying. “You know that is the most exclusive dancing class in New York.”
“I don’t care; I shall never go again—never!” The child’s voice was as resolute as it was angry.
“Helen, you must not speak in that way to your mother!” replied my wife. “Unless you give a good reason, you must go—and there can’t be any reason.”
“Don’t ask me, mother!” she pleaded.
“You must tell me why. I insist.”
There was a long silence, then Helen said: “I can’t tell you any more than that some of the girls—insult me.”
“What do you mean?” exclaimed my wife.
“Several of them turn their backs on me, and won’t speak to me, and look at me—oh!” That exclamation came in a burst of fury. “And they sneer at me to the boys—and some of them won’t speak to me, either.”
There was another silence. Then my wife said: “You must expect that, Helen. So many are envious of your father’s—of his wealth, that they try to take their spite out upon us. But you must have pride. The way to deal with such a situation is to face it—to——”