Sam irritably blew the lather from his lips, with milky small bubbles, and snorted, “Be a good thing for most of us roughnecks if we did have a smart woman to tell us how to fix up the town.  Just as much to her kicking as there was to Jim Blausser’s gassing about factories.  And you can bet Mrs. Kennicott is smart, even if she is skittish.  Glad to see her back.”

Dr. Westlake hastened to play safe.  “So was I!  So was I!  She’s got a nice way about her, and she knows a good deal about books, or fiction anyway.  Of course she’s like all the rest of these women—­not solidly founded—­not scholarly—­doesn’t know anything about political economy—­falls for every new idea that some windjamming crank puts out.  But she’s a nice woman.  She’ll probably fix up the rest-room, and the rest-room is a fine thing, brings a lot of business to town.  And now that Mrs. Kennicott’s been away, maybe she’s got over some of her fool ideas.  Maybe she realizes that folks simply laugh at her when she tries to tell us how to run everything.”

“Sure.  She’ll take a tumble to herself,” said Nat Hicks, sucking in his lips judicially.  “As far as I’m concerned, I’ll say she’s as nice a looking skirt as there is in town.  But yow!” His tone electrified them.  “Guess she’ll miss that Swede Valborg that used to work for me!  They was a pair!  Talking poetry and moonshine!  If they could of got away with it, they’d of been so darn lovey-dovey——­”

Sam Clark interrupted, “Rats, they never even thought about making love, Just talking books and all that junk.  I tell you, Carrie Kennicott’s a smart woman, and these smart educated women all get funny ideas, but they get over ’em after they’ve had three or four kids.  You’ll see her settled down one of these days, and teaching Sunday School and helping at sociables and behaving herself, and not trying to butt into business and politics.  Sure!”

After only fifteen minutes of conference on her stockings, her son, her separate bedroom, her music, her ancient interest in Guy Pollock, her probable salary in Washington, and every remark which she was known to have made since her return, the supreme council decided that they would permit Carol Kennicott to live, and they passed on to a consideration of Nat Hicks’s New One about the traveling salesman and the old maid.

IV

For some reason which was totally mysterious to Carol, Maud Dyer seemed to resent her return.  At the Jolly Seventeen Maud giggled nervously, “Well, I suppose you found war-work a good excuse to stay away and have a swell time.  Juanita!  Don’t you think we ought to make Carrie tell us about the officers she met in Washington?”

They rustled and stared.  Carol looked at them.  Their curiosity seemed natural and unimportant.

“Oh yes, yes indeed, have to do that some day,” she yawned.