“What’s the use, Aunt Sophie, of trying to be decent? I don’t see the need of trying—I might as well give up the struggle and admit I’m beaten,” she despairingly told Mrs. Rogers.
“Don’t be silly, Mimi. They’ve talked about everybody. It’ll all blow over in time.”
“No—you’re just trying to console me. People forget decent things—they never forget a thing like this.”
“There’s something in that, but the people you really care about will have sense enough to see this in a broad light. And those who don’t see it and give you credit for trying to atone for your mistake don’t count—you’ll be better off without their friendship.”
They sat at dinner and Mimi could almost hear the tumbling down of the walls she had so confidently been building. For the first time she felt sick at heart, crushed, without hope. She could withstand poverty, physical pain. But the averted glances of those who had been her friends, the ostentatious turning of heads when she passed on the street those with whom she had been on terms of intimate acquaintanceship, the sudden death of conversations at her approach which told her more plainly than if the information had been shouted through a megaphone that they had been talking of her, the boldness in the eyes of some of the men where there had been only respect before, all these and a thousand other little cruelties were the things which hurt. Hurt her painfully, more painfully than mere physical pain. She envied her aunt’s calmness, her philosophical acceptance of people’s habits, whether these habits were good or bad. She tried to keep her mind on the comforting flow of words with which Mrs. Rogers was seeking to bolster her courage.
“People have gossiped from the beginning of time and I suppose they’ll keep right on until Gabriel blows his trump. I don’t know why it is but there’s one thing that’s always true—they tear you to pieces not for