She must have people for her little world,--people to visit with, to
talk to. From her doll years Milly had loved people indiscriminately.
She must have them about her, to play with, to interest, to arouse
interest in herself. Wherever she derived this social passion--obviously
not from Grandma Ridge--it had been and would always be the dominant
note of her life. Later, in her more sophisticated and more
introspective phase, she would proclaim it as a creed: "People are the
most interesting thing in life--just humans!" And she would count her
gregariousness as a virtue. But as yet it was unconscious, an animal
instinct for the herd. And she was lonely the first days at West
Laurence Avenue.
Everywhere the family had put foot to earth in its wanderings, Milly had
acquired friends easily,--at school, in church, among the
neighbors,--what chance afforded from the mass. She wept even on her
departure from St. Louis, which she had hated because of the light
housekeeping, at the thought of losing familiar faces. A number of her
casual friends came to the station to see her off, as they always did.
She kissed them all, and swore to each that she would write, which she
promptly forgot to do. But she loved them all, just the same. And now
that the Ridge destiny seemed to be settled with fair prospects of
permanency in this new, untried prairie city,--a huddle of a million or
more souls,--she cast her eager eyes about for the conquest that must be
made....
The social hegira from the West Side of the city had already begun: the
more prosperous with social aspirations were dropping away, moving to
the north or the south, along the Lake. Some of the older families still
lingered, rooted in associations, hesitant before new fashions, and
these, Milly at once divined, lived in the old-fashioned brick and stone
houses along the Boulevard that crossed West Laurence Avenue just below
the Ridge home. These seats of the mighty on Western Boulevard might not
be grand, but they alone of all the neighborhood had something of the
aristocratic air.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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