CHAPTER V

by Sinclair Lewis

　　I"WE'LL steal the whole day, and go hunting. I want you to see thecountry round here," Kennicott announced at breakfast. "I'd take thecar--want you to see how swell she runs since I put in a new piston.But we'll take a team, so we can get right out into the fields. Not manyprairie chickens left now, but we might just happen to run onto a smallcovey."He fussed over his hunting-kit. He pulled his hip boots out to fulllength and examined them for holes. He feverishly counted his shotgunshells, lecturing her on the qualities of smokeless powder. He drew thenew hammerless shotgun out of its heavy tan leather case and made herpeep through the barrels to see how dazzlingly free they were from rust.The world of hunting and camping-outfits and fishing-tackle wasunfamiliar to her, and in Kennicott's interest she found somethingcreative and joyous. She examined the smooth stock, the carved hardrubber butt of the gun. The shells, with their brass caps and sleekgreen bodies and hieroglyphics on the wads, were cool and comfortablyheavy in her hands.Kennicott wore a brown canvas hunting-coat with vast pockets liningthe inside, corduroy trousers which bulged at the wrinkles, peeled andscarred shoes, a scarecrow felt hat. In this uniform he felt virile.They clumped out to the livery buggy, they packed the kit and the box oflunch into the back, crying to each other that it was a magnificent day.Kennicott had borrowed Jackson Elder's red and white English setter, acomplacent dog with a waving tail of silver hair which flickered in thesunshine. As they started, the dog yelped, and leaped at the horses'heads, till Kennicott took him into the buggy, where he nuzzled Carol'sknees and leaned out to sneer at farm mongrels.The grays clattered out on the hard dirt road with a pleasant song ofhoofs: "Ta ta ta rat! Ta ta ta rat!" It was early and fresh, the airwhistling, frost bright on the golden rod. As the sun warmed the worldof stubble into a welter of yellow they turned from the highroad,through the bars of a farmer's gate, into a field, slowly bumping overthe uneven earth. In a hollow of the rolling prairie they lost sighteven of the country road. It was warm and placid. Locusts trilled amongthe dry wheat-stalks, and brilliant little flies hurtled across thebuggy. A buzz of content filled the air. Crows loitered and gossiped inthe sky.The dog had been let out and after a dance of excitement he settled downto a steady quartering of the field, forth and back, forth and back, hisnose down."Pete Rustad owns this farm, and he told me he saw a small covey ofchickens in the west forty, last week. Maybe we'll get some sport afterall," Kennicott chuckled blissfully.She watched the dog in suspense, breathing quickly every time he seemedto halt. She had no desire to slaughter birds, but she did desire tobelong to Kennicott's world.The dog stopped, on the point, a forepaw held up."By golly! He's hit a scent! Come on!" squealed Kennicott. He leapedfrom the buggy, twisted the reins about the whip-socket, swung her out,caught up his gun, slipped in two shells, stalked toward the rigid dog,Carol pattering after him. The setter crawled ahead, his tail quivering,his belly close to the stubble. Carol was nervous. She expected cloudsof large birds to fly up instantly. Her eyes were strained with staring.But they followed the dog for a quarter of a mile, turning, doubling,crossing two low hills, kicking through a swale of weeds, crawlingbetween the strands of a barbed-wire fence. The walking was hard onher pavement-trained feet. The earth was lumpy, the stubble prickly andlined with grass, thistles, abortive stumps of clover. She dragged andfloundered.She heard Kennicott gasp, "Look!" Three gray birds were starting upfrom the stubble. They were round, dumpy, like enormous bumble bees.Kennicott was sighting, moving the barrel. She was agitated. Why didn'the fire? The birds would be gone! Then a crash, another, and two birdsturned somersaults in the air, plumped down.When he showed her the birds she had no sensation of blood. These heapsof feathers were so soft and unbruised--there was about them no hint ofdeath. She watched her conquering man tuck them into his inside pocket,and trudged with him back to the buggy.They found no more prairie chickens that morning.At noon they drove into her first farmyard, a private village, a whitehouse with no porches save a low and quite dirty stoop at the back,a crimson barn with white trimmings, a glazed brick silo, anex-carriage-shed, now the garage of a Ford, an unpainted cow-stable, achicken-house, a pig-pen, a corn-crib, a granary, the galvanized-ironskeleton tower of a wind-mill. The dooryard was of packed yellow clay,treeless, barren of grass, littered with rusty plowshares and wheelsof discarded cultivators. Hardened trampled mud, like lava, filled thepig-pen. The doors of the house were grime-rubbed, the corners and eaveswere rusted with rain, and the child who stared at them from the kitchenwindow was smeary-faced. But beyond the barn was a clump of scarletgeraniums; the prairie breeze was sunshine in motion; the flashing metalblades of the windmill revolved with a lively hum; a horse neighed, arooster crowed, martins flew in and out of the cow-stable.A small spare woman with flaxen hair trotted from the house. She wastwanging a Swedish patois--not in monotone, like English, but singingit, with a lyrical whine:"Pete he say you kom pretty soon hunting, doctor. My, dot's fine youkom. Is dis de bride? Ohhhh! Ve yoost say las' night, ve hope maybe vesee her som day. My, soch a pretty lady!" Mrs. Rustad was shining withwelcome. "Vell, vell! Ay hope you lak dis country! Von't you stay fordinner, doctor?""No, but I wonder if you wouldn't like to give us a glass of milk?"condescended Kennicott."Vell Ay should say Ay vill! You vait har a second and Ay run on demilk-house!" She nervously hastened to a tiny red building beside thewindmill; she came back with a pitcher of milk from which Carol filledthe thermos bottle.As they drove off Carol admired, "She's the dearest thing I ever saw.And she adores you. You are the Lord of the Manor.""Oh no," much pleased, "but still they do ask my advice about things.Bully people, these Scandinavian farmers. And prosperous, too. HelgaRustad, she's still scared of America, but her kids will be doctors andlawyers and governors of the state and any darn thing they want to.""I wonder----" Carol was plunged back into last night's Weltschmerz."I wonder if these farmers aren't bigger than we are? So simple andhard-working. The town lives on them. We townies are parasites, and yetwe feel superior to them. Last night I heard Mr. Haydock talking about'hicks.' Apparently he despises the farmers because they haven't reachedthe social heights of selling thread and buttons.""Parasites? Us? Where'd the farmers be without the town? Who lends themmoney? Who--why, we supply them with everything!""Don't you find that some of the farmers think they pay too much for theservices of the towns?""Oh, of course there's a lot of cranks among the farmers same as thereare among any class. Listen to some of these kickers, a fellow'dthink that the farmers ought to run the state and the wholeshooting-match--probably if they had their way they'd fill up thelegislature with a lot of farmers in manure-covered boots--yes, andthey'd come tell me I was hired on a salary now, and couldn't fix myfees! That'd be fine for you, wouldn't it!""But why shouldn't they?""Why? That bunch of----Telling ME----Oh, for heaven's sake, let's quitarguing. All this discussing may be all right at a party but----Let'sforget it while we're hunting.""I know. The Wonderlust--probably it's a worse affliction than theWanderlust. I just wonder----"She told herself that she had everything in the world. And after eachself-rebuke she stumbled again on "I just wonder----"They ate their sandwiches by a prairie slew: long grass reaching up outof clear water, mossy bogs, red-winged black-birds, the scum a splash ofgold-green. Kennicott smoked a pipe while she leaned back in the buggyand let her tired spirit be absorbed in the Nirvana of the incomparablesky.They lurched to the highroad and awoke from their sun-soaked drowse atthe sound of the clopping hoofs. They paused to look for partridges in arim of woods, little woods, very clean and shiny and gay, silver birchesand poplars with immaculate green trunks, encircling a lake of sandybottom, a splashing seclusion demure in the welter of hot prairie.Kennicott brought down a fat red squirrel and at dusk he had a dramaticshot at a flight of ducks whirling down from the upper air, skimming thelake, instantly vanishing.They drove home under the sunset. Mounds of straw, and wheat-stacks likebee-hives, stood out in startling rose and gold, and the green-tuftedstubble glistened. As the vast girdle of crimson darkened, the fulfilledland became autumnal in deep reds and browns. The black road beforethe buggy turned to a faint lavender, then was blotted to uncertaingrayness. Cattle came in a long line up to the barred gates of thefarmyards, and over the resting land was a dark glow.Carol had found the dignity and greatness which had failed her in MainStreet.IITill they had a maid they took noon dinner and six o'clock supper atMrs. Gurrey's boarding-house.Mrs. Elisha Gurrey, relict of Deacon Gurrey the dealer in hay and grain,was a pointed-nosed, simpering woman with iron-gray hair drawn so tightthat it resembled a soiled handkerchief covering her head. But she wasunexpectedly cheerful, and her dining-room, with its thin tablecloth ona long pine table, had the decency of clean bareness.In the line of unsmiling, methodically chewing guests, like horses ata manger, Carol came to distinguish one countenance: the pale, long,spectacled face and sandy pompadour hair of Mr. Raymond P. Wutherspoon,known as "Raymie," professional bachelor, manager and one half thesales-force in the shoe-department of the Bon Ton Store."You will enjoy Gopher Prairie very much, Mrs. Kennicott," petitionedRaymie. His eyes were like those of a dog waiting to be let in out ofthe cold. He passed the stewed apricots effusively. "There are a greatmany bright cultured people here. Mrs. Wilks, the Christian Sciencereader, is a very bright woman--though I am not a Scientist myself,in fact I sing in the Episcopal choir. And Miss Sherwin of the highschool--she is such a pleasing, bright girl--I was fitting her to a pairof tan gaiters yesterday, I declare, it really was a pleasure.""Gimme the butter, Carrie," was Kennicott's comment. She defied him byencouraging Raymie:"Do you have amateur dramatics and so on here?""Oh yes! The town's just full of talent. The Knights of Pythias put on adandy minstrel show last year.""It's nice you're so enthusiastic.""Oh, do you really think so? Lots of folks jolly me for trying to getup shows and so on. I tell them they have more artistic gifts than theyknow. Just yesterday I was saying to Harry Haydock: if he would readpoetry, like Longfellow, or if he would join the band--I get so muchpleasure out of playing the cornet, and our band-leader, Del Snafflin,is such a good musician, I often say he ought to give up his barberingand become a professional musician, he could play the clarinet inMinneapolis or New York or anywhere, but--but I couldn't get Harry tosee it at all and--I hear you and the doctor went out hunting yesterday.Lovely country, isn't it. And did you make some calls? The mercantilelife isn't inspiring like medicine. It must be wonderful to see howpatients trust you, doctor.""Huh. It's me that's got to do all the trusting. Be damn sight morewonderful 'f they'd pay their bills," grumbled Kennicott and, to Carol,he whispered something which sounded like "gentleman hen."But Raymie's pale eyes were watering at her. She helped him with, "Soyou like to read poetry?""Oh yes, so much--though to tell the truth, I don't get much timefor reading, we're always so busy at the store and----But we had thedandiest professional reciter at the Pythian Sisters sociable lastwinter."Carol thought she heard a grunt from the traveling salesman at the endof the table, and Kennicott's jerking elbow was a grunt embodied. Shepersisted:"Do you get to see many plays, Mr. Wutherspoon?"He shone at her like a dim blue March moon, and sighed, "No, but I dolove the movies. I'm a real fan. One trouble with books is that they'renot so thoroughly safeguarded by intelligent censors as the movies are,and when you drop into the library and take out a book you never knowwhat you're wasting your time on. What I like in books is a wholesome,really improving story, and sometimes----Why, once I started a novel bythis fellow Balzac that you read about, and it told how a lady wasn'tliving with her husband, I mean she wasn't his wife. It went intodetails, disgustingly! And the English was real poor. I spoke to thelibrary about it, and they took it off the shelves. I'm not narrow,but I must say I don't see any use in this deliberately dragging inimmorality! Life itself is so full of temptations that in literature onewants only that which is pure and uplifting.""What's the name of that Balzac yarn? Where can I get hold of it?"giggled the traveling salesman.Raymie ignored him. "But the movies, they are mostly clean, and theirhumor----Don't you think that the most essential quality for a person tohave is a sense of humor?""I don't know. I really haven't much," said Carol.He shook his finger at her. "Now, now, you're too modest. I'm sure wecan all see that you have a perfectly corking sense of humor. Besides,Dr. Kennicott wouldn't marry a lady that didn't have. We all know how heloves his fun!""You bet. I'm a jokey old bird. Come on, Carrie; let's beat it,"remarked Kennicott.Raymie implored, "And what is your chief artistic interest, Mrs.Kennicott?""Oh----" Aware that the traveling salesman had murmured, "Dentistry,"she desperately hazarded, "Architecture.""That's a real nice art. I've always said--when Haydock & Simons werefinishing the new front on the Bon Ton building, the old man came to me,you know, Harry's father, 'D. H.,' I always call him, and he asked mehow I liked it, and I said to him, 'Look here, D. H.,' I said--you see,he was going to leave the front plain, and I said to him, 'It's all verywell to have modern lighting and a big display-space,' I said, 'but whenyou get that in, you want to have some architecture, too,' I said, andhe laughed and said he guessed maybe I was right, and so he had 'em puton a cornice.""Tin!" observed the traveling salesman.Raymie bared his teeth like a belligerent mouse. "Well, what if it istin? That's not my fault. I told D. H. to make it polished granite. Youmake me tired!""Leave us go! Come on, Carrie, leave us go!" from Kennicott.Raymie waylaid them in the hall and secretly informed Carol that shemusn't mind the traveling salesman's coarseness--he belonged to thehwa pollwa.Kennicott chuckled, "Well, child, how about it? Do you prefer anartistic guy like Raymie to stupid boobs like Sam Clark and me?""My dear! Let's go home, and play pinochle, and laugh, and be foolish,and slip up to bed, and sleep without dreaming. It's beautiful to bejust a solid citizeness!"IIIFrom the Gopher Prairie Weekly Dauntless:One of the most charming affairs of the season was held Tuesday eveningat the handsome new residence of Sam and Mrs. Clark when many of ourmost prominent citizens gathered to greet the lovely new bride of ourpopular local physician, Dr. Will Kennicott. All present spoke of themany charms of the bride, formerly Miss Carol Milford of St. Paul. Gamesand stunts were the order of the day, with merry talk and conversation.At a late hour dainty refreshments were served, and the party broke upwith many expressions of pleasure at the pleasant affair. Among thosepresent were Mesdames Kennicott, Elder----* * * * *Dr. Will Kennicott, for the past several years one of our most popularand skilful physicians and surgeons, gave the town a delightful surprisewhen he returned from an extended honeymoon tour in Colorado this weekwith his charming bride, nee Miss Carol Milford of St. Paul, whosefamily are socially prominent in Minneapolis and Mankato. Mrs. Kennicottis a lady of manifold charms, not only of striking charm of appearancebut is also a distinguished graduate of a school in the East and hasfor the past year been prominently connected in an important positionof responsibility with the St. Paul Public Library, in which city Dr."Will" had the good fortune to meet her. The city of Gopher Prairiewelcomes her to our midst and prophesies for her many happy years inthe energetic city of the twin lakes and the future. The Dr. and Mrs.Kennicott will reside for the present at the Doctor's home on PoplarStreet which his charming mother has been keeping for him who has nowreturned to her own home at Lac-qui-Meurt leaving a host of friends whoregret her absence and hope to see her soon with us again.IVShe knew that if she was ever to effect any of the "reforms" which shehad pictured, she must have a starting-place. What confused her duringthe three or four months after her marriage was not lack of perceptionthat she must be definite, but sheer careless happiness of her firsthome.In the pride of being a housewife she loved every detail--the brocadearmchair with the weak back, even the brass water-cock on the hot-waterreservoir, when she had become familiar with it by trying to scour it tobrilliance.She found a maid--plump radiant Bea Sorenson from Scandia Crossing. Beawas droll in her attempt to be at once a respectful servant and a bosomfriend. They laughed together over the fact that the stove did not draw,over the slipperiness of fish in the pan.Like a child playing Grandma in a trailing skirt, Carol paraded uptownfor her marketing, crying greetings to housewives along the way.Everybody bowed to her, strangers and all, and made her feel that theywanted her, that she belonged here. In city shops she was merely ACustomer--a hat, a voice to bore a harassed clerk. Here she was Mrs. DocKennicott, and her preferences in grape-fruit and manners were knownand remembered and worth discussing . . . even if they weren't worthfulfilling.Shopping was a delight of brisk conferences. The very merchants whosedroning she found the dullest at the two or three parties which weregiven to welcome her were the pleasantest confidants of all when theyhad something to talk about--lemons or cotton voile or floor-oil.With that skip-jack Dave Dyer, the druggist, she conducted a longmock-quarrel. She pretended that he cheated her in the price ofmagazines and candy; he pretended she was a detective from the TwinCities. He hid behind the prescription-counter, and when she stampedher foot he came out wailing, "Honest, I haven't done nothing crookedtoday--not yet."She never recalled her first impression of Main Street; neverhad precisely the same despair at its ugliness. By the end of twoshopping-tours everything had changed proportions. As she never enteredit, the Minniemashie House ceased to exist for her. Clark's HardwareStore, Dyer's Drug Store, the groceries of Ole Jenson and FrederickLudelmeyer and Howland & Gould, the meat markets, the notionsshop--they expanded, and hid all other structures. When she entered Mr.Ludelmeyer's store and he wheezed, "Goot mornin', Mrs. Kennicott. Vell,dis iss a fine day," she did not notice the dustiness of the shelvesnor the stupidity of the girl clerk; and she did not remember the mutecolloquy with him on her first view of Main Street.She could not find half the kinds of food she wanted, but that madeshopping more of an adventure. When she did contrive to get sweetbreadsat Dahl & Oleson's Meat Market the triumph was so vast that she buzzedwith excitement and admired the strong wise butcher, Mr. Dahl.She appreciated the homely ease of village life. She liked the old men,farmers, G.A.R. veterans, who when they gossiped sometimes squatted ontheir heels on the sidewalk, like resting Indians, and reflectively spatover the curb.She found beauty in the children.She had suspected that her married friends exaggerated their passionfor children. But in her work in the library, children had becomeindividuals to her, citizens of the State with their own rights andtheir own senses of humor. In the library she had not had much timeto give them, but now she knew the luxury of stopping, gravely askingBessie Clark whether her doll had yet recovered from its rheumatism, andagreeing with Oscar Martinsen that it would be Good Fun to go trapping"mushrats."She touched the thought, "It would be sweet to have a baby of my own. Ido want one. Tiny----No! Not yet! There's so much to do. And I'm stilltired from the job. It's in my bones."She rested at home. She listened to the village noises common to allthe world, jungle or prairie; sounds simple and charged with magic--dogsbarking, chickens making a gurgling sound of content, children at play,a man beating a rug, wind in the cottonwood trees, a locust fiddling,a footstep on the walk, jaunty voices of Bea and a grocer's boy in thekitchen, a clinking anvil, a piano--not too near.Twice a week, at least, she drove into the country with Kennicott, tohunt ducks in lakes enameled with sunset, or to call on patients wholooked up to her as the squire's lady and thanked her for toys andmagazines. Evenings she went with her husband to the motion pictures andwas boisterously greeted by every other couple; or, till it became toocold, they sat on the porch, bawling to passers-by in motors, or toneighbors who were raking the leaves. The dust became golden in the lowsun; the street was filled with the fragrance of burning leaves.VBut she hazily wanted some one to whom she could say what she thought.On a slow afternoon when she fidgeted over sewing and wished that thetelephone would ring, Bea announced Miss Vida Sherwin.Despite Vida Sherwin's lively blue eyes, if you had looked at her indetail you would have found her face slightly lined, and not so muchsallow as with the bloom rubbed off; you would have found her chestflat, and her fingers rough from needle and chalk and penholder; herblouses and plain cloth skirts undistinguished; and her hat worn too farback, betraying a dry forehead. But you never did look at Vida Sherwinin detail. You couldn't. Her electric activity veiled her. She was asenergetic as a chipmunk. Her fingers fluttered; her sympathy came outin spurts; she sat on the edge of a chair in eagerness to be near herauditor, to send her enthusiasms and optimism across.She rushed into the room pouring out: "I'm afraid you'll think theteachers have been shabby in not coming near you, but we wanted togive you a chance to get settled. I am Vida Sherwin, and I try to teachFrench and English and a few other things in the high school.""I've been hoping to know the teachers. You see, I was a librarian----""Oh, you needn't tell me. I know all about you! Awful how much Iknow--this gossipy village. We need you so much here. It's a dear loyaltown (and isn't loyalty the finest thing in the world!) but it's arough diamond, and we need you for the polishing, and we're ever sohumble----" She stopped for breath and finished her compliment with asmile."If I COULD help you in any way----Would I be committing theunpardonable sin if I whispered that I think Gopher Prairie is a tinybit ugly?""Of course it's ugly. Dreadfully! Though I'm probably the only person intown to whom you could safely say that. (Except perhaps Guy Pollockthe lawyer--have you met him?--oh, you MUST!--he's simply adarling--intelligence and culture and so gentle.) But I don't care somuch about the ugliness. That will change. It's the spirit that givesme hope. It's sound. Wholesome. But afraid. It needs live creatures likeyou to awaken it. I shall slave-drive you!""Splendid. What shall I do? I've been wondering if it would be possibleto have a good architect come here to lecture.""Ye-es, but don't you think it would be better to work with existingagencies? Perhaps it will sound slow to you, but I was thinking----Itwould be lovely if we could get you to teach Sunday School."Carol had the empty expression of one who finds that she has beenaffectionately bowing to a complete stranger. "Oh yes. But I'm afraid Iwouldn't be much good at that. My religion is so foggy.""I know. So is mine. I don't care a bit for dogma. Though I do stickfirmly to the belief in the fatherhood of God and the brotherhood of manand the leadership of Jesus. As you do, of course."Carol looked respectable and thought about having tea."And that's all you need teach in Sunday School. It's the personalinfluence. Then there's the library-board. You'd be so useful on that.And of course there's our women's study club--the Thanatopsis Club.""Are they doing anything? Or do they read papers made out of theEncyclopedia?"Miss Sherwin shrugged. "Perhaps. But still, they are so earnest. Theywill respond to your fresher interest. And the Thanatopsis does do agood social work--they've made the city plant ever so many trees, andthey run the rest-room for farmers' wives. And they do take such aninterest in refinement and culture. So--in fact, so very unique."Carol was disappointed--by nothing very tangible. She said politely,"I'll think them all over. I must have a while to look around first."Miss Sherwin darted to her, smoothed her hair, peered at her. "Oh,my dear, don't you suppose I know? These first tender days ofmarriage--they're sacred to me. Home, and children that need you, anddepend on you to keep them alive, and turn to you with their wrinklylittle smiles. And the hearth and----" She hid her face from Carol asshe made an activity of patting the cushion of her chair, but she wenton with her former briskness:"I mean, you must help us when you're ready. . . . I'm afraid you'llthink I'm conservative. I am! So much to conserve. All this treasure ofAmerican ideals. Sturdiness and democracy and opportunity. Maybe not atPalm Beach. But, thank heaven, we're free from such social distinctionsin Gopher Prairie. I have only one good quality--overwhelming belief inthe brains and hearts of our nation, our state, our town. It's so strongthat sometimes I do have a tiny effect on the haughty ten-thousandaires.I shake 'em up and make 'em believe in ideals--yes, in themselves. ButI get into a rut of teaching. I need young critical things like you topunch me up. Tell me, what are you reading?""I've been re-reading 'The Damnation of Theron Ware.' Do you know it?""Yes. It was clever. But hard. Man wanted to tear down, not build up.Cynical. Oh, I do hope I'm not a sentimentalist. But I can't see any usein this high-art stuff that doesn't encourage us day-laborers to plodon."Ensued a fifteen-minute argument about the oldest topic in the world:It's art but is it pretty? Carol tried to be eloquent regarding honestyof observation. Miss Sherwin stood out for sweetness and a cautious useof the uncomfortable properties of light. At the end Carol cried:"I don't care how much we disagree. It's a relief to have somebodytalk something besides crops. Let's make Gopher Prairie rock to itsfoundations: let's have afternoon tea instead of afternoon coffee."The delighted Bea helped her bring out the ancestral foldingsewing-table, whose yellow and black top was scarred with dotted linesfrom a dressmaker's tracing-wheel, and to set it with an embroideredlunch-cloth, and the mauve-glazed Japanese tea-set which she had broughtfrom St. Paul. Miss Sherwin confided her latest scheme--moral motionpictures for country districts, with light from a portable dynamohitched to a Ford engine. Bea was twice called to fill the hot-waterpitcher and to make cinnamon toast.When Kennicott came home at five he tried to be courtly, as befits thehusband of one who has afternoon tea. Carol suggested that Miss Sherwinstay for supper, and that Kennicott invite Guy Pollock, the much-praisedlawyer, the poetic bachelor.Yes, Pollock could come. Yes, he was over the grippe which had preventedhis going to Sam Clark's party.Carol regretted her impulse. The man would be an opinionated politician,heavily jocular about The Bride. But at the entrance of Guy Pollock shediscovered a personality. Pollock was a man of perhaps thirty-eight,slender, still, deferential. His voice was low. "It was very good of youto want me," he said, and he offered no humorous remarks, and did notask her if she didn't think Gopher Prairie was "the livest little burgin the state."She fancied that his even grayness might reveal a thousand tints oflavender and blue and silver.At supper he hinted his love for Sir Thomas Browne, Thoreau, AgnesRepplier, Arthur Symons, Claude Washburn, Charles Flandrau. He presentedhis idols diffidently, but he expanded in Carol's bookishness, in MissSherwin's voluminous praise, in Kennicott's tolerance of any one whoamused his wife.Carol wondered why Guy Pollock went on digging at routine law-cases;why he remained in Gopher Prairie. She had no one whom she could ask.Neither Kennicott nor Vida Sherwin would understand that there might bereasons why a Pollock should not remain in Gopher Prairie. She enjoyedthe faint mystery. She felt triumphant and rather literary. She alreadyhad a Group. It would be only a while now before she provided the townwith fanlights and a knowledge of Galsworthy. She was doing things! Asshe served the emergency dessert of cocoanut and sliced oranges, shecried to Pollock, "Don't you think we ought to get up a dramatic club?"