Miss Sherwin darted to her, smoothed her hair, peered at her.  “Oh, my dear, don’t you suppose I know?  These first tender days of marriage—­they’re sacred to me.  Home, and children that need you, and depend on you to keep them alive, and turn to you with their wrinkly little smiles.  And the hearth and——­” She hid her face from Carol as she made an activity of patting the cushion of her chair, but she went on with her former briskness: 

“I mean, you must help us when you’re ready. . . .  I’m afraid you’ll think I’m conservative.  I am!  So much to conserve.  All this treasure of American ideals.  Sturdiness and democracy and opportunity.  Maybe not at Palm Beach.  But, thank heaven, we’re free from such social distinctions in Gopher Prairie.  I have only one good quality—­overwhelming belief in the brains and hearts of our nation, our state, our town.  It’s so strong that sometimes I do have a tiny effect on the haughty ten-thousandaires.  I shake ’em up and make ’em believe in ideals—­yes, in themselves.  But I get into a rut of teaching.  I need young critical things like you to punch me up.  Tell me, what are you reading?”

“I’ve been re-reading ‘The Damnation of Theron Ware.’  Do you know it?”

“Yes.  It was clever.  But hard.  Man wanted to tear down, not build up.  Cynical.  Oh, I do hope I’m not a sentimentalist.  But I can’t see any use in this high-art stuff that doesn’t encourage us day-laborers to plod on.”

Ensued a fifteen-minute argument about the oldest topic in the world:  It’s art but is it pretty?  Carol tried to be eloquent regarding honesty of observation.  Miss Sherwin stood out for sweetness and a cautious use of the uncomfortable properties of light.  At the end Carol cried: 

“I don’t care how much we disagree.  It’s a relief to have somebody talk something besides crops.  Let’s make Gopher Prairie rock to its foundations:  let’s have afternoon tea instead of afternoon coffee.”

The delighted Bea helped her bring out the ancestral folding sewing-table, whose yellow and black top was scarred with dotted lines from a dressmaker’s tracing-wheel, and to set it with an embroidered lunch-cloth, and the mauve-glazed Japanese tea-set which she had brought from St. Paul.  Miss Sherwin confided her latest scheme—­moral motion pictures for country districts, with light from a portable dynamo hitched to a Ford engine.  Bea was twice called to fill the hot-water pitcher and to make cinnamon toast.

When Kennicott came home at five he tried to be courtly, as befits the husband of one who has afternoon tea.  Carol suggested that Miss Sherwin stay for supper, and that Kennicott invite Guy Pollock, the much-praised lawyer, the poetic bachelor.

Yes, Pollock could come.  Yes, he was over the grippe which had prevented his going to Sam Clark’s party.

Carol regretted her impulse.  The man would be an opinionated politician, heavily jocular about The Bride.  But at the entrance of Guy Pollock she discovered a personality.  Pollock was a man of perhaps thirty-eight, slender, still, deferential.  His voice was low.  “It was very good of you to want me,” he said, and he offered no humorous remarks, and did not ask her if she didn’t think Gopher Prairie was “the livest little burg in the state.”