doubtfully and hesitantly, then blurted it out as though he expected to be spanked: “write.” It was almost a shout of defiance. To Mimi there was much of the childish in his gesture of defiance, but there was also something fine about it. The burden of the conversation of the other boys of her acquaintance usually was: “When I’m making such-and-such a number of dollars” or “When I’m a doctor and have established a big practice.” Carl interested her much more than she had believed he would. Indeed, she had not thought about his interesting her. There was some, thing of her own spirit in his defiance of local mores, his words made her realize just how deeply she herself had sunk into the rut of conventional standards.
“But why can’t you write or do whatever you want to do and at the same time work in your father’s insurance business?” she asked sympathetically. “We’re living in a material world—money is necessary—and you don’t have to sell your soul simply to earn a living, do you?”
“The whole thing gives me a pain and I hate it—I