The House of Mirth by Edith Wharton

had been money enough, and in some vague way her father seemed always to blame for the deficiency. It could certainly not be the fault of Mrs. Bart, who was spoken of by her friends as a “wonderful manager.” Mrs. Bart was famous for the unlimited effect she produced on limited means, and to the lady and her acquaintances there was something heroic in living as though one were much richer than one’s bank-book denoted.
    Lily was naturally proud of her mother’s aptitude in this line; she had been brought up in the faith that whatever it cost, one must have a good cook and be what Mrs. Bart called “decently dressed.” Mrs. Bart’s worst reproach to her husband was to ask him if he expected her to “live like a pig”; and his replying in the negative was always regarded as a justification for cabling to Paris for an extra dress or two and telephoning to the jeweller that he might, after all, send home the turquoise bracelet which Mrs. Bart had looked at that morning.
    Lily knew people who “lived like pigs,” and their appearance and surroundings justified her mother’s repugnance to that form of existence. They were mostly cousins who inhabited dingy houses with engravings from Cole’s Voyage of Life on the drawing-room walls, and slatternly parlour-maids who said “I’ll go and see” to visitors calling at an hour when all right-minded persons are conventionally if not actually out. The disgusting part of it was that many of these cousins were rich, so that Lily imbibed the idea that if people lived like pigs it was from choice and through the lack of any proper standard of conduct. This gave her a sense of reflected superiority, and she did not need Mrs. Bart’s comments on the family frumps and misers to foster her naturally lively taste for splendour.
    Lily was nineteen when circumstances caused her to evise her view of the universe.
    The previous year she had made a dazzling début, fringed by a heavy thunder-cloud of bills. The light of the début still lingered on the horizon, but the cloud had thickened; and suddenly it broke. The suddenness added to the horror, and there were still times when Lily relived with painful vividness every detail of the day on which the blow fell. She and her mother had been seated at the luncheon-table, over the chaufroix and cold salmon of the previous night’s dinner: it was one of Mrs. Bart’s few economies to consume in private the expensive remnants of her hospitality. Lily was feeling the pleasant languor which is youth’s penalty for dancing till dawn; but her mother, in spite of a few lines about the mouth and under the yellow waves on her temples, was as alert, determined, and high in colour as if she had risen from an untroubled sleep.
    In the centre of the table, between the melting marrons glacés and candied cherries, a pyramid of American Beauties lifted their vigorous stems; they held their heads as high as Mrs. Bart, but their rose colour had turned to a dissipated purple, and Lily’s sense of fitness was disturbed by their reappearance on the luncheon-table.
    â€œI really think, Mother,” she said reproachfully, “we might afford a few fresh flowers for luncheon. Just some jonquils or lilies-of-the-valley—”
    Mrs. Bart stared. Her own fastidiousness had its eye fixed on the world, and she did not care how the luncheon-table looked when there was no one present at it but the family. But she smiled at her daughter’s innocence.
    â€œLilies-of-the-valley,” she said calmly, “cost two dollars a dozen at this season.”
    Lily was not impressed. She knew very little of the value of money.
    â€œIt would not take more than six dozen to fill that bowl,” she argued.
    â€œSix dozen what?” asked her father’s voice in the doorway.
    The two women looked up in surprise; though it was a Saturday, the sight of Mr. Bart at luncheon was an