They explored Minneapolis.  Kennicott was conversational and technical regarding gluten and cockle-cylinders and No.  I Hard, when they were shown through the gray stone hulks and new cement elevators of the largest flour-mills in the world.  They looked across Loring Park and the Parade to the towers of St. Mark’s and the Procathedral, and the red roofs of houses climbing Kenwood Hill.  They drove about the chain of garden-circled lakes, and viewed the houses of the millers and lumbermen and real estate peers—­the potentates of the expanding city.  They surveyed the small eccentric bungalows with pergolas, the houses of pebbledash and tapestry brick with sleeping-porches above sun-parlors, and one vast incredible chateau fronting the Lake of the Isles.  They tramped through a shining-new section of apartment-houses; not the tall bleak apartments of Eastern cities but low structures of cheerful yellow brick, in which each flat had its glass-enclosed porch with swinging couch and scarlet cushions and Russian brass bowls.  Between a waste of tracks and a raw gouged hill they found poverty in staggering shanties.

They saw miles of the city which they had never known in their days of absorption in college.  They were distinguished explorers, and they remarked, in great mutual esteem, “I bet Harry Haydock’s never seen the City like this!  Why, he’d never have sense enough to study the machinery in the mills, or go through all these outlying districts.  Wonder folks in Gopher Prairie wouldn’t use their legs and explore, the way we do!”

They had two meals with Carol’s sister, and were bored, and felt that intimacy which beatifies married people when they suddenly admit that they equally dislike a relative of either of them.

So it was with affection but also with weariness that they approached the evening on which Carol was to see the plays at the dramatic school.  Kennicott suggested not going.  “So darn tired from all this walking; don’t know but what we better turn in early and get rested up.”  It was only from duty that Carol dragged him and herself out of the warm hotel, into a stinking trolley, up the brownstone steps of the converted residence which lugubriously housed the dramatic school.

V

They were in a long whitewashed hall with a clumsy draw-curtain across the front.  The folding chairs were filled with people who looked washed and ironed:  parents of the pupils, girl students, dutiful teachers.

“Strikes me it’s going to be punk.  If the first play isn’t good, let’s beat it,” said Kennicott hopefully.

“All right,” she yawned.  With hazy eyes she tried to read the lists of characters, which were hidden among lifeless advertisements of pianos, music-dealers, restaurants, candy.

She regarded the Schnitzler play with no vast interest.  The actors moved and spoke stiffly.  Just as its cynicism was beginning to rouse her village-dulled frivolity, it was over.