Morrison. He spoke now without the slightest _arrière-pensée_ of
flattering her, and Sylvia in her sudden burst for self-expression was
unconscious of him, save as an opponent in an argument.

"You just _say_ that, in that superior way," she flashed at him,
"because _you_ don't have to bother your head about such matters,
because you don't have to associate with people who are fighting for
those essentials. For they _are_ what everybody except Father and
Mother--_every_ body feels to be the essentials--a pretty house,
handsome clothes, servants to do the unpleasant things, social
life--oh, plenty of money sums it all up, 'vulgar' as it sounds. And I
don't believe you are different. I don't believe anybody you know is
really a bit different! Let Aunt Victoria, let old Mr. Sommerville,
lose their money, and you'd see how unimportant Debussy and Masaccio
would be to them, compared to having to black their own shoes!"

"Well, upon my word!" exclaimed Morrison. "Are you at eighteen
presuming to a greater knowledge of life than I at forty?"

"I'm not eighteen, I'm twenty-three," said Sylvia. "The difference
is enormous. And if I don't know more about plain unvarnished human
nature than you, I miss my guess! _You_ haven't gone through five
years at a State University, rubbing shoulders with folks who haven't
enough sophistication to pretend to be different from what they
are. _You_ haven't taught music for three years in the middle-class
families of a small Western city!" She broke off to laugh an
apologetic depreciation of her own heat. "You'd think I was addressing
a meeting," she said in her usual tone. "I got rather carried away
because this is the first time I ever really spoke out about it. There
are so few who could understand. If I ever tried to explain it to