Wasn’t her whole life like that hunting-coat?

She knew every nick and brown spot on each piece of the set of china purchased by Kennicott’s mother in 1895—­discreet china with a pattern of washed-out forget-me-nots, rimmed with blurred gold:  the gravy-boat, in a saucer which did not match, the solemn and evangelical covered vegetable-dishes, the two platters.

Twenty times had Kennicott sighed over the fact that Bea had broken the other platter—­the medium-sized one.

The kitchen.

Damp black iron sink, damp whitey-yellow drain-board with shreds of discolored wood which from long scrubbing were as soft as cotton thread, warped table, alarm clock, stove bravely blackened by Oscarina but an abomination in its loose doors and broken drafts and oven that never would keep an even heat.

Carol had done her best by the kitchen:  painted it white, put up curtains, replaced a six-year-old calendar by a color print.  She had hoped for tiling, and a kerosene range for summer cooking, but Kennicott always postponed these expenses.

She was better acquainted with the utensils in the kitchen than with Vida Sherwin or Guy Pollock.  The can-opener, whose soft gray metal handle was twisted from some ancient effort to pry open a window, was more pertinent to her than all the cathedrals in Europe; and more significant than the future of Asia was the never-settled weekly question as to whether the small kitchen knife with the unpainted handle or the second-best buckhorn carving-knife was better for cutting up cold chicken for Sunday supper.

II

She was ignored by the males till midnight.  Her husband called, “Suppose we could have some eats, Carrie?” As she passed through the dining-room the men smiled on her, belly-smiles.  None of them noticed her while she was serving the crackers and cheese and sardines and beer.  They were determining the exact psychology of Dave Dyer in standing pat, two hours before.

When they were gone she said to Kennicott, “Your friends have the manners of a barroom.  They expect me to wait on them like a servant.  They’re not so much interested in me as they would be in a waiter, because they don’t have to tip me.  Unfortunately!  Well, good night.”

So rarely did she nag in this petty, hot-weather fashion that he was astonished rather than angry.  “Hey!  Wait!  What’s the idea?  I must say I don’t get you.  The boys——­Barroom?  Why, Perce Bresnahan was saying there isn’t a finer bunch of royal good fellows anywhere than just the crowd that were here tonight!”

They stood in the lower hall.  He was too shocked to go on with his duties of locking the front door and winding his watch and the clock.

“Bresnahan!  I’m sick of him!” She meant nothing in particular.

“Why, Carrie, he’s one of the biggest men in the country!  Boston just eats out of his hand!”