“What does it mean?” she asked us. “What does ‘wicked’ mean?”
“It’s what you aren’t to be,” I took the brunt of the reply, because I was the relative of the questioner.
“Why not?” asked Grandmother.
Why not? Oh, we all knew that. We responded instantly, and out came the results of the training of all the families.
“Because your mother and father say you can’t,” said Betty Rodman.
“Because it makes your mother feel bad,” said Calista.
“Because God don’t want us to,” said I.
“Delia says,” Betty added, “it’s because, if you are, when you grow up people won’t think anything of you.”
Grandmother Beers held her sweet-peas to her face.
“If,” she said after a moment, “you wanted to do something wicked more than you ever wanted to do anything in the world—as much as you’d want a drink to-morrow if you hadn’t had one to-day—and if nobody ever knew—would any of those reasons keep you from doing it?”