Last week I had to have a new party dress, and we found a perfect darling of a pink silk, all gold beads, and gold slippers to match. And I knew I'd look perfectly divine in it; and once Mother would have got it for me. But not this time. She got a horrid white muslin with dots in it, and a blue silk sash, suitable for a child—for any child.
Of course, I was disappointed, and I suppose I did show it—some. In fact, I'm afraid I showed it a whole lot. Mother didn't say anything then; but on the way home in the car she put her arm around me and said:
"I'm sorry about the pink dress, dear. I knew you wanted it. But it was not suitable at all for you—not until you're older, dear."
She stopped a minute, then went on with another little hug:
"Mother will have to look out that her little daughter isn't getting to be vain, and too fond of dress."
I knew then, of course, that it was just some more of that self-discipline business.
But Mother never used to say anything about self-discipline.
Is she getting to be like Aunt Jane?
* * * * *
One week later.