V
She wondered why she sang so often, and why she found
so many pleasant things—lamplight seen though trees on
a cool evening, sunshine on brown wood, morning sparrows,
black sloping roofs turned to plates of silver by moonlight.
Pleasant things, small friendly things, and pleasant places—a
field of goldenrod, a pasture by the creek—and suddenly a
wealth of pleasant people. Vida was lenient to Carol at the
surgical-dressing class; Mrs. Dave Dyer flattered her with
questions about her health, baby, cook, and opinions on the
war.
Mrs. Dyer seemed not to share the town's prejudice against
Erik. "He's a nice-looking fellow; we must have him go on
one of our picnics some time." Unexpectedly, Dave Dyer also
liked him. The tight-fisted little farceur had a confused
reverence for anything that seemed to him refined or clever. He
answered Harry Haydock's sneers, "That's all right now!
Elizabeth may doll himself up too much, but he's smart, and
don't you forget it! I was asking round trying to find
out where this Ukraine is, and darn if he didn't tell me.
What's the matter with his talking so polite? Hell's bells,
Harry, no harm in being polite. There's some regular
he-men that are just as polite as women, prett' near."
Carol found herself going about rejoicing, "How neighborly
the town is!" She drew up with a dismayed "Am I falling in
love with this boy? That's ridiculous! I'm merely interested
in him. I like to think of helping him to succeed."
But as she dusted the living-room, mended a collar-band,
bathed Hugh, she was picturing herself and a young artistan
Apollo nameless and evasive—building a house in the
Berkshires or in Virginia; exuberantly buying a chair with his
first check; reading poetry together, and frequently being
earnest over valuable statistics about labor; tumbling out of
bed early for a Sunday walk, and chattering (where Kennicott
would have yawned) over bread and butter by a lake. Hugh
was in her pictures, and he adored the young artist, who made
castles of chairs and rugs for him. Beyond these playtimes
she saw the "things I could do for Erik"—and she admitted
that Erik did partly make up the image of her altogether perfect
artist.
In panic she insisted on being attentive to Kennicott, when
he wanted to be left alone to read the newspaper.
