“How do you know all these people? I have never been to Mrs. O’Flaherty’s house before, and I should not have gone this time, if my dress had been sent home on time. Did you go because of what I said today? I would really like to know.” And Mary meant it.
“Yes, I suppose I did, but there is nothing very wonderful about that. I concluded that she must be sick or in trouble, when you failed to hear from her, so I looked her up.”
“And you, probably, had never heard of her before, while she has been doing my laundry work ever since I came to Westover. It strikes me that I have been both thoughtless and selfish.”
“You have been busy,” Constance said gently, “and then, in a certain sense, I feel as if these cases were my work just as much as Greek and History. Mother does not believe in indiscriminate giving. She believes in personal investigation as far as possible. That takes longer, of course, and is much more bother, but she has made me feel that I have no right to waste my money (even if I do have more than most girls), by a lazy way of giving. What I give carelessly to some unworthy person who asks aid, may really belong by right to someone else who is deserving and whom I would have found, had I investigated personally. Do you see what I mean? I cannot help everyone, and so where I do help, I want my money to do good, not harm.”
“Your way must cost a great amount of time and trouble.”
“It often does, and that is my real, personal part of the giving. I cannot take credit to myself for giving the money which comes to me with no exertion on my part.”
“What shall you do when you are out of college and in society?”
“I never expect to be in society, as I suppose you understand that term. I have no particular fondness for receptions and germans and balls. One tires of it all fearfully soon. I shall do some sort of college settlement work, but I shall not undertake it until I feel better prepared than at present.”
“Dolly always said that I never knew anything about you, and she was right. In your place I know that I should just be getting all of the good times that I could for myself. I’m afraid that I should not care for much except the frivolous part of life. It is well that I am poor, and not likely to see much gaiety, because it has an irresistible attraction for me. You would not imagine it, would you?”
But Constance could understand perfectly how Mary’s hard, prosaic life on the western farm had caused her to think with deep longing of the bright, fashionable world in which she had no part or lot. Constance’s comprehension was so perfect, and her sympathy so delicate, that Mary grew bitterly ashamed of the narrow feelings and jealousy which had marred all her sophomore year. There should be no more of it, she told herself sharply. Mary was not afraid to face facts when she once met them.