"Don't you ever mind," she asked suddenly, "not being rich enough to buy all the books you want?"
He followed her glance about the room, with its worn furniture and shabby walls.
"Don't I just? Do you take me for a saint on a pillar?"
"Don't I just? Do you take me for a saint on a pillar?"
"And having to work—do you mind that?"
"Oh, the work itself is not so bad—I'm rather fond of the law."
"No; but the being tied down: the routine—don't you ever want to get away, to see new places and people?"
"Horribly—especially when I see all my friends rushing to the steamer."
She drew a sympathetic breath. "But do you mind enough—to marry to get out of it?"
Selden broke into a laugh. "God forbid!" he declared.
She rose with a sigh, tossing her cigarette into the grate.
"Ah, there's the difference—a girl must, a man may if he chooses." She surveyed him critically. "Your coat's a little shabby—but who cares? It doesn't keep people from asking you to dine. If I were shabby no one would have me: a woman is asked out as much for her clothes as for herself. The clothes are the background, the frame, if you like: they don't make success, but they are a part of it. Who wants a dingy woman? We are expected to be pretty and well-dressed till we drop—and if we can't keep it up alone, we have to go into partnership."
Excerpt from chapter 1, House of of Mirth.
