Harry and Juanita Haydock, Rita Simons and Dr. Terry Gould—­the young smart set of Gopher Prairie.  She was led to them.  Juanita Haydock flung at her in a high, cackling, friendly voice: 

“Well, this is so nice to have you here.  We’ll have some good parties—­dances and everything.  You’ll have to join the Jolly Seventeen.  We play bridge and we have a supper once a month.  You play, of course?”

“N-no, I don’t.”

“Really?  In St. Paul?”

“I’ve always been such a book-worm.”

“We’ll have to teach you.  Bridge is half the fun of life.”  Juanita had become patronizing, and she glanced disrespectfully at Carol’s golden sash, which she had previously admired.

Harry Haydock said politely, “How do you think you’re going to like the old burg?”

“I’m sure I shall like it tremendously.”

“Best people on earth here.  Great hustlers, too.  Course I’ve had lots of chances to go live in Minneapolis, but we like it here.  Real he-town.  Did you know that Percy Bresnahan came from here?”

Carol perceived that she had been weakened in the biological struggle by disclosing her lack of bridge.  Roused to nervous desire to regain her position she turned on Dr. Terry Gould, the young and pool-playing competitor of her husband.  Her eyes coquetted with him while she gushed: 

“I’ll learn bridge.  But what I really love most is the outdoors.  Can’t we all get up a boating party, and fish, or whatever you do, and have a picnic supper afterwards?”

“Now you’re talking!” Dr. Gould affirmed.  He looked rather too obviously at the cream-smooth slope of her shoulder.  “Like fishing?  Fishing is my middle name.  I’ll teach you bridge.  Like cards at all?”

“I used to be rather good at bezique.”

She knew that bezique was a game of cards—­or a game of something else.  Roulette, possibly.  But her lie was a triumph.  Juanita’s handsome, high-colored, horsey face showed doubt.  Harry stroked his nose and said humbly, “Bezique?  Used to be great gambling game, wasn’t it?”

While others drifted to her group, Carol snatched up the conversation.  She laughed and was frivolous and rather brittle.  She could not distinguish their eyes.  They were a blurry theater-audience before which she self-consciously enacted the comedy of being the Clever Little Bride of Doc Kennicott: 

“These-here celebrated Open Spaces, that’s what I’m going out for.  I’ll never read anything but the sporting-page again.  Will converted me on our Colorado trip.  There were so many mousey tourists who were afraid to get out of the motor ’bus that I decided to be Annie Oakley, the Wild Western Wampire, and I bought oh! a vociferous skirt which revealed my perfectly nice ankles to the Presbyterian glare of all the Ioway schoolma’ams, and I leaped from peak to peak like the nimble chamoys, and——­You may think that Herr Doctor Kennicott is a Nimrod, but you ought to have seen me daring him to strip to his B. V. D.’s and go swimming in an icy mountain brook.”