Carol had given creative energy to dressing for the event.  Her hair was demure, low on her forehead with a parting and a coiled braid.  Now she wished that she had piled it high.  Her frock was an ingenue slip of lawn, with a wide gold sash and a low square neck, which gave a suggestion of throat and molded shoulders.  But as they looked her over she was certain that it was all wrong.  She wished alternately that she had worn a spinsterish high-necked dress, and that she had dared to shock them with a violent brick-red scarf which she had bought in Chicago.

She was led about the circle.  Her voice mechanically produced safe remarks: 

“Oh, I’m sure I’m going to like it here ever so much,” and “Yes, we did have the best time in Colorado—­mountains,” and “Yes, I lived in St. Paul several years.  Euclid P. Tinker?  No, I don’t remember meeting him, but I’m pretty sure I’ve heard of him.”

Kennicott took her aside and whispered, “Now I’ll introduce you to them, one at a time.”

“Tell me about them first.”

“Well, the nice-looking couple over there are Harry Haydock and his wife, Juanita.  Harry’s dad owns most of the Bon Ton, but it’s Harry who runs it and gives it the pep.  He’s a hustler.  Next to him is Dave Dyer the druggist—­you met him this afternoon—­mighty good duck-shot.  The tall husk beyond him is Jack Elder—­Jackson Elder—­owns the planing-mill, and the Minniemashie House, and quite a share in the Farmers’ National Bank.  Him and his wife are good sports—­him and Sam and I go hunting together a lot.  The old cheese there is Luke Dawson, the richest man in town.  Next to him is Nat Hicks, the tailor.”

“Really?  A tailor?”

“Sure.  Why not?  Maybe we’re slow, but we are democratic.  I go hunting with Nat same as I do with Jack Elder.”

“I’m glad.  I’ve never met a tailor socially.  It must be charming to meet one and not have to think about what you owe him.  And do you——­Would you go hunting with your barber, too?”

“No but——­No use running this democracy thing into the ground.  Besides, I’ve known Nat for years, and besides, he’s a mighty good shot and——­That’s the way it is, see?  Next to Nat is Chet Dashaway.  Great fellow for chinning.  He’ll talk your arm off, about religion or politics or books or anything.”

Carol gazed with a polite approximation to interest at Mr. Dashaway, a tan person with a wide mouth.  “Oh, I know!  He’s the furniture-store man!” She was much pleased with herself.

“Yump, and he’s the undertaker.  You’ll like him.  Come shake hands with him.”

“Oh no, no!  He doesn’t—­he doesn’t do the embalming and all that—­himself?  I couldn’t shake hands with an undertaker!”

“Why not?  You’d be proud to shake hands with a great surgeon, just after he’d been carving up people’s bellies.”

She sought to regain her afternoon’s calm of maturity.  “Yes.  You’re right.  I want—­oh, my dear, do you know how much I want to like the people you like?  I want to see people as they are.”