“Some people don’t know when they’re well off. You have enough to eat, to drink, and to wear, and a good home. What more do you want?”
The girl looked at the dingy sitting-room, her own shabby gray gown, then out at the dismal landscape, blurred by the rain and low-hanging clouds, with something like frank contempt, and answered, recklessly:
“I want pretty clothes and jewels, beautiful surroundings, gay times, and lovers, such as other girls have instead of this humdrum, poky existence—so there!”
“Humph!”
It was all Mrs. Flint said aloud, but to herself she added:
“Good land! I do wish my brother would come home from his eternal wanderings and take charge of his rattled-brained daughter. She’s too pretty and restless, and I don’t see how I’m going to hold her down much longer.”
Cinthia Dawn was seventeen now, and ever since she had been given into her aunt’s sole keeping at five years old, the strait-laced soul, who was as prim and particular as an old maid, had been engaged in the difficult task of “holding down” her spirited young niece. She had even erred on the side of prudence, so great was her anxiety to bring her up in the way she should go.
When the lovely child first came her aunt said frankly to all:
“I don’t want anybody ever to tell Cinthy that she is pretty.”
“She can find it out for herself by just looking in the glass,” objected one of her cronies.