“That must have been fine,” said Erik.

Carol was ignored.  But Kennicott was blustrously cheerful.  He shouted to a farmer, as he slowed up to pass the frightened team, “There we are—­schon gut!” She sat back, neglected, frozen, unheroic heroine in a drama insanely undramatic.  She made a decision resolute and enduring.  She would tell Kennicott——­What would she tell him?  She could not say that she loved Erik.  Did she love him?  But she would have it out.  She was not sure whether it was pity for Kennicott’s blindness, or irritation at his assumption that he was enough to fill any woman’s life, which prompted her, but she knew that she was out of the trap, that she could be frank; and she was exhilarated with the adventure of it . . . while in front he was entertaining Erik: 

“Nothing like an hour on a duck-pass to make you relish your victuals and——­Gosh, this machine hasn’t got the power of a fountain pen.  Guess the cylinders are jam-cram-full of carbon again.  Don’t know but what maybe I’ll have to put in another set of piston-rings.”

He stopped on Main Street and clucked hospitably, “There, that’ll give you just a block to walk.  G’ night.”

Carol was in suspense.  Would Erik sneak away?

He stolidly moved to the back of the car, thrust in his hand, muttered, “Good night—­Carol.  I’m glad we had our walk.”  She pressed his hand.  The car was flapping on.  He was hidden from her—­by a corner drug store on Main Street!

Kennicott did not recognize her till he drew up before the house.  Then he condescended, “Better jump out here and I’ll take the boat around back.  Say, see if the back door is unlocked, will you?” She unlatched the door for him.  She realized that she still carried the damp glove she had stripped off for Erik.  She drew it on.  She stood in the center of the living-room, unmoving, in damp coat and muddy rubbers.  Kennicott was as opaque as ever.  Her task wouldn’t be anything so lively as having to endure a scolding, but only an exasperating effort to command his attention so that he would understand the nebulous things she had to tell him, instead of interrupting her by yawning, winding the clock, and going up to bed.  She heard him shoveling coal into the furnace.  He came through the kitchen energetically, but before he spoke to her he did stop in the hall, did wind the clock.

He sauntered into the living-room and his glance passed from her drenched hat to her smeared rubbers.  She could hear—­she could hear, see, taste, smell, touch—­his “Better take your coat off, Carrie; looks kind of wet.”  Yes, there it was: 

“Well, Carrie, you better——­” He chucked his own coat on a chair, stalked to her, went on with a rising tingling voice, “——­you better cut it out now.  I’m not going to do the out-raged husband stunt.  I like you and I respect you, and I’d probably look like a boob if I tried to be dramatic.  But I think it’s about time for you and Valborg to call a halt before you get in Dutch, like Fern Mullins did.”