She sprang up, ignoring his wail of “Vida!  Wait!  Sit down!  Gosh!  I’m flabbergasted!  Gee!  Vida!” She marched out.  While he was paying his check she got ahead.  He ran after her, blubbering, “Vida!  Wait!” In the shade of the lilacs in front of the Gougerling house he came up with her, stayed her flight by a hand on her shoulder.

“Oh, don’t!  Don’t!  What does it matter?” she begged.  She was sobbing, her soft wrinkly lids soaked with tears.  “Who cares for my affection or help?  I might as well drift on, forgotten.  O Ray, please don’t hold me.  Let me go.  I’ll just decide not to renew my contract here, and—­and drift—­way off——­”

His hand was steady on her shoulder.  She dropped her head, rubbed the back of his hand with her cheek.

They were married in June.

V

They took the Ole Jenson house.  “It’s small,” said Vida, “but it’s got the dearest vegetable garden, and I love having time to get near to Nature for once.”

Though she became Vida Wutherspoon technically, and though she certainly had no ideals about the independence of keeping her name, she continued to be known as Vida Sherwin.

She had resigned from the school, but she kept up one class in English.  She bustled about on every committee of the Thanatopsis; she was always popping into the rest-room to make Mrs. Nodelquist sweep the floor; she was appointed to the library-board to succeed Carol; she taught the Senior Girls’ Class in the Episcopal Sunday School, and tried to revive the King’s Daughters.  She exploded into self-confidence and happiness; her draining thoughts were by marriage turned into energy.  She became daily and visibly more plump, and though she chattered as eagerly, she was less obviously admiring of marital bliss, less sentimental about babies, sharper in demanding that the entire town share her reforms—­the purchase of a park, the compulsory cleaning of back-yards.

She penned Harry Haydock at his desk in the Bon Ton; she interrupted his joking; she told him that it was Ray who had built up the shoe-department and men’s department; she demanded that he be made a partner.  Before Harry could answer she threatened that Ray and she would start a rival shop.  “I’ll clerk behind the counter myself, and a Certain Party is all ready to put up the money.”

She rather wondered who the Certain Party was.

Ray was made a one-sixth partner.

He became a glorified floor-walker, greeting the men with new poise, no longer coyly subservient to pretty women.  When he was not affectionately coercing people into buying things they did not need, he stood at the back of the store, glowing, abstracted, feeling masculine as he recalled the tempestuous surprises of love revealed by Vida.

The only remnant of Vida’s identification of herself with Carol was a jealousy when she saw Kennicott and Ray together, and reflected that some people might suppose that Kennicott was his superior.  She was sure that Carol thought so, and she wanted to shriek, “You needn’t try to gloat!  I wouldn’t have your pokey old husband.  He hasn’t one single bit of Ray’s spiritual nobility.”