Guy Pollock wrote to a cousin, a temporary army captain, a confiding and buoyant lad who took Carol to tea-dances, and laughed, as she had always wanted some one to laugh, about nothing in particular.  The captain introduced her to the secretary of a congressman, a cynical young widow with many acquaintances in the navy.  Through her Carol met commanders and majors, newspapermen, chemists and geographers and fiscal experts from the bureaus, and a teacher who was a familiar of the militant suffrage headquarters.  The teacher took her to headquarters.  Carol never became a prominent suffragist.  Indeed her only recognized position was as an able addresser of envelopes.  But she was casually adopted by this family of friendly women who, when they were not being mobbed or arrested, took dancing lessons or went picnicking up the Chesapeake Canal or talked about the politics of the American Federation of Labor.

With the congressman’s secretary and the teacher Carol leased a small flat.  Here she found home, her own place and her own people.  She had, though it absorbed most of her salary, an excellent nurse for Hugh.  She herself put him to bed and played with him on holidays.  There were walks with him, there were motionless evenings of reading, but chiefly Washington was associated with people, scores of them, sitting about the flat, talking, talking, talking, not always wisely but always excitedly.  It was not at all the “artist’s studio” of which, because of its persistence in fiction, she had dreamed.  Most of them were in offices all day, and thought more in card-catalogues or statistics than in mass and color.  But they played, very simply, and they saw no reason why anything which exists cannot also be acknowledged.

She was sometimes shocked quite as she had shocked Gopher Prairie by these girls with their cigarettes and elfish knowledge.  When they were most eager about soviets or canoeing, she listened, longed to have some special learning which would distinguish her, and sighed that her adventure had come so late.  Kennicott and Main Street had drained her self-reliance; the presence of Hugh made her feel temporary.  Some day—­oh, she’d have to take him back to open fields and the right to climb about hay-lofts.

But the fact that she could never be eminent among these scoffing enthusiasts did not keep her from being proud of them, from defending them in imaginary conversations with Kennicott, who grunted (she could hear his voice), “They’re simply a bunch of wild impractical theorists sittin’ round chewing the rag,” and “I haven’t got the time to chase after a lot of these fool fads; I’m too busy putting aside a stake for our old age.”