Fortunate

Through a happy stroke of nepotism at its best, I have secured a desirable post for the summer that will leave me, at August's close, with a considerable sum of hardly-earned money. My penny-pinching superego, bred into me from first memory, is urging me to let over half of it collect .5% interest at the credit union while the rest covers my moderate expenses next year. However, Lily Bart of The House of Mirth has alerted me to another course: using this money to marry money.
I am not unaware of certain wealthy enclaves in the world of off-campus housing. In fact, I used to be acquainted with several young women who were destined for those shining condos and tasteful lofts with windows as wide as one wall of my bedroom. They never did show any sign of continuing their relationships with me once I was removed from their immediate presence, but then I never cared for them beyond idle conversation.
But—what if I were to spend the entire amount of my summer windfall over the next semesters? Instead of using my meager earnings from tutoring for pocket money, I would have a couple thousand at my disposal. I would rent one of the apartments that affect awe when the address is spoken; I would dress and dye my way into the elite. After all, the more affluent circles are not solely populated by women…
I am sure I could just as easily fall in love with a rich man as I could a poor one. Just think how much I could write if I paid people to take care of the details of life like cleaning the house and driving the children to soccer practice.
Too bad these things never end happily when Edith Wharton writes them.