"Work!" mother said. "Career! What next? Why can't you be
like Leila, and settle down to haveing a good time?"
"Leila and I are diferent," I said loftily, for I resented
her tone. "Leila is a child of the moment. Life for her is one
grand, sweet Song. For me it is a serious matter. `Life is real,
life is earnest, and the Grave is not its goal,'" I quoted in
impasioned tones.
(Because that is the way I feel. How can the Grave be its
goal? _There must be something beyond_. I have thought it all
out, and I beleive in a world beyond, but not in a hell. Hell,
I beleive, is the state of mind one gets into in this world as
a result of one's wicked Acts or one's wicked Thoughts, and is
in one's self.)
As I have said, the other side of the Compromise was that
I was not to carry Flasks with me, or drink any punch at parties
if it had a stick in it, and you can generally find out by the
taste. For if it is what Carter Brooks calls "loaded" it stings
your tongue. Or if it tastes like cider it's probably Champane.
And I was not to smoke any cigarettes.
Mother was holding out on the Sweater at that time, saying
that Sis had a perfectly good one from Miami, and why not wear
that? So I put up a strong protest about the cigarettes,
although I have never smoked but once as I think the School
knows, and that only half through, owing to getting dizzy.
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