Mrs. Wright was one of those thoroughly practical souls who glory in their activity and efficiency. She did everything so easily that she had never seen the necessity of teaching her daughters to do anything.
“They will learn soon enough!” she always declared. “Nobody taught me! They will marry and then they will learn.”
Elizabeth always winced when her mother announced so confidently that her daughters would marry. Perhaps they would but, on the other hand, perhaps they wouldn’t. She for one was sure she would not. Certainly it was not her aim in life as it seemed to be of her sisters. Marriage was all right if it was built on true love, as she was sure this marriage of Mary Louise’s was to be. In her heart of hearts Elizabeth wanted to write but she thought she had not lived long enough to have anything to write about.
Dear Mary Louise Burrows! How happy she looked with her friends gathered around her on her grandfather’s piazza! That piazza was a favorite place for the girls to assemble and now that Mary Louise was so soon to marry Danny Dexter it was almost a daily occurrence for them to meet there. Irene MacFarlane was there in her wheel chair, her countenance as calm and peaceful as ever, while her busy fingers embroidered a wonderfully dainty bit of lingerie for her friend’s trousseau. Alora Jones was there, not looking much happier than she had formerly, although her three millions had been almost doubled in the last few years, thanks to the war activities that wealth had indulged in. Poor Alora found it difficult to let herself go. Her wealth made her suspicious. Because she had been imposed upon once, she was ever looking out for similar experiences. She was happier with this band of friends, tried and true, than with anybody else in the world. Certainly they wanted nothing from her but friendship and that her shy heart was eager to give. Her artist father encouraged her in seeking out these wholesome, normal girls, hoping through them his daughter would begin to value life for what it was worth.
“We are cursed with money, Alora,” he would say, “but for Heaven’s sake, let’s forget it. In the meantime we must give and give!”
Pretty Laura Hilton was there, as small and bird-like as ever. By her sat Lucile Neal, who had inherited an executive ability from her father, the owner of the Neal Automobile Factory, and whose clear judgment was ever in demand when Mary Louise and her friends had any project on foot. Edna Barlow, the only poor girl in the group, was in the hammock with Jane Donovan, the daughter of Dorfield’s mayor.
All of the girls were sewing on Mary Louise’s trousseau. It was Irene’s idea that they should meet together in this way and busy themselves with this labor of love.
“To return to jobs,” said Elizabeth. “I’m going to find out what pays best and learn how to do it and then bust loose from my family. If they don’t like it, they can lump it. I want a latchkey and a bank account of my own. As it is, if I’m not in the house at a certain time, there is a hue and cry and father begins on what young ladies did in his day and Gertrude and Annabel look shocked and Pauline and Margaret say they would never be guilty of such unladylike behavior and they all agree that men don’t like independent girls and I’ll never get a suspicion of a beau if I don’t mend my ways—as though I wanted one if I’d have to make myself over to get him!”
“And what does your mother say?” laughed Mary Louise.
“Oh, Mother doesn’t say anything. She is always so busy she doesn’t even know I’m not there. With two servants in the house Mother still manages never to be idle one moment in the day. She is always baking and brewing, sewing and dusting, cleaning out closets or bureau drawers, airing beds, rubbing furniture, cleaning silver, doing a million and one things that the maids could do just as well as she. The truth of the matter is Mother should have had a profession outside of being a wife and mother. She has too much energy and efficiency to waste on a mere home.”