When he had left them Miss Parker broke out impatiently, tapping her foot against the floor.
“Such an inhuman way to take things! To watch that awful fire merely to get a sensation in reds and blacks! He would come to my funeral just to see the effect of the black coffin, the green sward, and the minister’s white gown. He makes me think of a mushy green caterpillar, stuffed out with nice sensations, improperly assimilated. There he goes down Forty-fourth street, picking his way and squinting at the houses.”
“You shouldn’t begrudge anybody a glimpse of beauty here in Chicago, even if it takes four blocks and a million to make it,” Mrs. Wilbur laughed in a hard, set manner. “We were talking about that—what sacrifices to make for the mind and the sense of the beautiful—when you came in.”
Molly Parker seized her hand impulsively.
“Adela, don’t,—don’t indulge yourself in sentiment of that sort.”
“What?”
“About being unhappy here in this strong new world. You have chosen to live here, and you have shown how able you are. Do let yourself be happy.” She glanced involuntarily at the rich room.
“I hate it,” Mrs. Wilbur said coldly, noticing her glance. “But how stirred up you are. I am not contemplating anything desperate.”
“You will. You are just the kind to shock the whole world, to make yourself wretched for life and your friends too, because you have worked yourself into some exalted fancy. Why can’t you drop problems and sensations and the ends of life—and live like a good human being from hour to hour. Sometime you will find that in your anxiety to get just the best, you have lost even the common good. Here is your house, your child, your husband—”
“Yes,” the older woman agreed wearily. “Why do I make such a fuss? Why do you and the others bother about me?”