The House of Mirth

by Edith Wharton

Miss Farish still fixed her with an anxious gaze. “But what is your story, Lily? I don’t believe any one knows it yet.” “My story? I don’t believe I know it myself. You see, I never thought of preparing a version in advance as Bertha did; and if I had, I don’t think I should take the trouble to use it now.” But Gerty continued with her quiet reasonableness: “I don’t want a version prepared in advance, but I want you to tell me exactly what happened from the beginning.” “From the beginning?” Miss Bart gently mimicked her. “Dear Gerty, how little imagination you good people have! Why, the beginning was in my cradle, I suppose, in the way I was brought up and the things I was taught to care for. Or, no, I won’t blame anybody for my faults; I’ll say it was in my blood, that I got it from some wicked pleasure-loving ancestress who reacted against the homely virtues of New Amsterdam and wanted to be back at the court of the Charleses!” And as Miss Farish continued to press her with troubled eyes, she went on impatiently: “You asked me just now for the truth; well, the truth about any girl is that once she’s talked about she’s done for; and the more she explains her case the worse it looks. My good Gerty, you don’t happen to have a cigarette about you?”