She was startled by the return of her father, startled by a sudden conviction that in this flaxen boy she had found the gray reticent judge who was divine love, perfect under-standing.  She debated it, furiously denied it, reaffirmed it, ridiculed it.  Of one thing she was unhappily certain:  there was nothing of the beloved father image in Will Kennicott.

V

She wondered why she sang so often, and why she found so many pleasant things—­lamplight seen though trees on a cool evening, sunshine on brown wood, morning sparrows, black sloping roofs turned to plates of silver by moonlight.  Pleasant things, small friendly things, and pleasant places—­a field of goldenrod, a pasture by the creek—­and suddenly a wealth of pleasant people.  Vida was lenient to Carol at the surgical-dressing class; Mrs. Dave Dyer flattered her with questions about her health, baby, cook, and opinions on the war.

Mrs. Dyer seemed not to share the town’s prejudice against Erik.  “He’s a nice-looking fellow; we must have him go on one of our picnics some time.”  Unexpectedly, Dave Dyer also liked him.  The tight-fisted little farceur had a confused reverence for anything that seemed to him refined or clever.  He answered Harry Haydock’s sneers, “That’s all right now!  Elizabeth may doll himself up too much, but he’s smart, and don’t you forget it!  I was asking round trying to find out where this Ukraine is, and darn if he didn’t tell me.  What’s the matter with his talking so polite?  Hell’s bells, Harry, no harm in being polite.  There’s some regular he-men that are just as polite as women, prett’ near.”

Carol found herself going about rejoicing, “How neighborly the town is!” She drew up with a dismayed “Am I falling in love with this boy?  That’s ridiculous!  I’m merely interested in him.  I like to think of helping him to succeed.”

But as she dusted the living-room, mended a collar-band, bathed Hugh, she was picturing herself and a young artistan Apollo nameless and evasive—­building a house in the Berkshires or in Virginia; exuberantly buying a chair with his first check; reading poetry together, and frequently being earnest over valuable statistics about labor; tumbling out of bed early for a Sunday walk, and chattering (where Kennicott would have yawned) over bread and butter by a lake.  Hugh was in her pictures, and he adored the young artist, who made castles of chairs and rugs for him.  Beyond these playtimes she saw the “things I could do for Erik”—­and she admitted that Erik did partly make up the image of her altogether perfect artist.

In panic she insisted on being attentive to Kennicott, when he wanted to be left alone to read the newspaper.

VI

She needed new clothes.  Kennicott had promised, “We’ll have a good trip down to the Cities in the fall, and take plenty of time for it, and you can get your new glad-rags then.”  But as she examined her wardrobe she flung her ancient black velvet frock on the floor and raged, “They’re disgraceful.  Everything I have is falling to pieces.”