Mrs. Bradly and Uncle Frank and baseball taught me those things. And with all my heart I am grateful that I have learned them. For although knowing how to enter a room is nice, knowing how to be square is of most importance, and I am sure it should come first.
I walked a long way. The streets were more empty than usual, and I liked that. . . . The gray skylights caught in the wet pavements, which reflected everything, and it was pretty. . . . I began to feel very much better. On my way home I found a woman selling violets, and I bought a little bouquet for Mr. Kempwood. It took all of two dollars which Uncle Frank had sent me, but I was so glad to spend it that way.
I stopped at Mr. Kempwood’s going up. Evelyn had just driven up in a motor, but she was with friends whom I didn’t know, so I didn’t wait. I don’t think, to be honest, that she wanted me to, for she only looked quickly at me and my violets, gave a casual wave, and turned back to speak to the group in the car.
Mr. Kempwood had not gone down-town and was glad to see me, and I took off my coat and sat down with him before a fire. It seemed hot, as indoors so often does after you have been walking fast in the rain. I felt my cheeks grow warm. He was very glad to get the violets and put them in a little glass basket that shimmered with hundreds of colours. He said they were positively the nicest violets he had ever had, and I could see that he really liked my bringing them to him. I hadn’t dreamed that it would please him so much, and I began to be honestly happy.
After a while, without his knowing why I asked it, I asked if he thought the mention of how a certain sort of wasp laid eggs was wrong. And I told him about how they did it, mentioning Uncle Frank with pride. Uncle Frank, of course, has taught me all I know of insect life.
It seems this sort of wasp lays her eggs in the back of caterpillars (the shaved varieties), and they hatch there and eat the caterpillar, who dies, which I think is sad, but clever of the wasp. And I told him that I had heard of a country girl telling this story at a tea and embarrassing people to whom she was related, and why shouldn’t she, and was it terrible? And didn’t he feel sorry for the caterpillar?
He answered at length. He said that it was perfect rot for anyone to be offended by that, and why should they be? He grew quite angry. “The world,” he said, “is full of fools, Nat. You couldn’t say anything unpleasant, my dear. It isn’t in you!”
I didn’t want him to know it was I, and I thought I had fixed it so he wouldn’t, but he is very clever!
“You can say anything,” he went on, “if you look at it in the bright, true light of decency and speak of it--aloud.”
I nodded, my eyes on him. “I know,” I agreed.