Lydia shivered.  “Don’t talk so, Charlie.  I wish I knew all about it, the truth about it.  If I was a man, you bet before I voted, I’d find out.  I’d go up there on that reservation and I’d see for myself whether it would be better for the Indians to get off.  That poor old squaw I gave my lunch to, I wonder what would become of her—­”

“Look here, Lydia,” exclaimed Charlie, “why don’t you come up on the reservation for a camping trip, next summer, for a week or so?”

“Costs too much,” said Lydia.

“Wouldn’t either.  I can get tents and it wouldn’t cost you anything but your share of the food.  Kent’ll go and maybe one of the teachers would chaperone.”

Lydia’s eyes kindled.  “Gee, Charlie, perhaps it could be fixed!  I got nine months to earn the money in.  It’s something to look forward to.”

Charlie nodded and moved away.  “You’ll learn things up there you never dreamed of,” he said.

The conversation with John Levine did not take place until the Sunday before the election.  The fight in the Congressional district had increased in bitterness as it went on.  Nothing but greed could have precipitated so malevolent a war.  The town was utterly disrupted.  Neighbors of years’ standing quarreled on sight.  Students in the University refused to enter the classrooms of teachers who disagreed with them on the Levine fight.  Family feuds developed.  Ancient family skeletons regarding pine grafts and Indian looting saw the light of day.

On the Saturday a week before election, Lydia went to pay her duty call on Margery.  Elviry admitted her.  It was the first time Lydia had seen her since the New York trip.

“Margery’ll be right down,” said Elviry.  “She’s just finished her nap.”

“Her what?” inquired Lydia, politely.

“Her nap.  A New York beauty doctor told me to have her take one every day.  Of course, going to school, she can’t do it only Saturdays and Sundays.  She went to the Hop last night.  She looked lovely in a cream chiffon.  One of the college professors asked who was that little beauty.  Come in, Margery.”

Margery strolled into the room in a bright red kimona.  “How de do, Lydia,” she said.

“Hello, Margery.  Want to play paper dolls?”

“Paper dolls!” shrieked Elviry.  “Why, Margery, you are fifteen!”

“I don’t care,” replied Lydia obstinately.  “I still play ’em once in a while.”

“I haven’t touched one since last spring,” said Margery.  “Want to see my New York clothes?”

“No, thank you,” answered Lydia.  “I’d just as soon not.  I’ve got to get home right away.”

“What’s in that big bundle?” asked Elviry, pointing to the huge paper parcel in Lydia’s lap.

“Nothing,” she said shortly, looking at the rope portieres in the doorway.

“I got new ones in the East,” said Elviry, following her glance.  “Shells strung together.  But I put ’em up only when we have parties.  We don’t use anything but doilies on the dining table now, no tablecloths.  It’s the latest thing in New York.  Who made your shirtwaist, Lydia?”