She simply didn't care for those advantages.

Indeed, she didn't regard them as advantages at all.
Helen did, though.
In her heart Helen had always longed to tread the stage of society--to her mind, a fairyland of wit and gallantry, masquerades and music, to say nothing of handsome young polo players and titled admirers from foreign shores--"big fools," all of them, as you can guess, when dazzled by the smiles of Youth and Beauty.
"Mary can go to California if she likes," said Helen at last, "but give me Miss Parsons' School." And Mary did go to California, although I doubt if she would have gained her point if her father hadn't taken her part.

For four years she attended the university by the Golden Gate, and every time she made the journey between the two oceans, sometimes accompanied by Miss Cordelia and sometimes by Miss Patty, she seemed to be a little more serene of glance, a little more tranquil of brow, as though one by one she were solving some of those problems which I have mentioned above.
Meanwhile Helen was in her glory at Miss Parsons'; and though the two aunts didn't confess it, they liked to sit and listen to her chatter of the girls whose friendship she was making, and to whose houses she was invited for the holidays.
When she was home, she sang snatches from the operas, danced with imaginary partners, rehearsed parts of private theatricals and dreamed of conquests.

She had also learned the knack of dressing her hair which, when done in the grand manner, isn't far from being a talent.

Pulled down on one side, with a pin or two adjusted, she was a dashing young duchess who rode to hounds and made the old duke's eyes pop out.