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Updated: June 27, 2025
Good night, dear." She did not see Erik for a fortnight, save once at church and once when she went to the tailor shop to talk over the plans, contingencies, and strategy of Kennicott's annual campaign for getting a new suit. Nat Hicks was there, and he was not so deferential as he had been. With unnecessary jauntiness he chuckled, "Some nice flannels, them samples, heh?"
The two men shook hands a dozen times and, in the Western fashion, bumbled, "Well, well, well, well, you old hell-hound, you old devil, how are you, anyway? You old horse-thief, maybe it ain't good to see you again!" While Sam nodded at her over Kennicott's shoulder, she was embarrassed. "Perhaps I should never have gone away. I'm out of practise in lying. I wish they would get it over!
She wanted to see Erik. She wanted some one to play with! There wasn't even so dignified and sound an excuse as having Kennicott's trousers pressed; when she inspected them, all three pairs looked discouragingly neat. She probably would not have ventured on it had she not spied Nat Hicks in the pool-parlor, being witty over bottle-pool. Erik was alone!
The only habitable structures to be seen were the florid red-brick Catholic church and rectory at the end of Main Street. Carol picked at Kennicott's sleeve. "You wouldn't call this a not-so-bad town, would you?" "These Dutch burgs ARE kind of slow. Still, at that See that fellow coming out of the general store there, getting into the big car? I met him once.
He drew the new hammerless shotgun out of its heavy tan leather case and made her peep through the barrels to see how dazzlingly free they were from rust. The world of hunting and camping-outfits and fishing-tackle was unfamiliar to her, and in Kennicott's interest she found something creative and joyous. She examined the smooth stock, the carved hard rubber butt of the gun.
This she absorbed while she was saying curtly, "Can I get these pressed, please?" Not rising from the sewing-machine he stuck out his hand, mumbled, "When do you want them?" "Oh, Monday." The adventure was over. She was marching out. "What name?" he called after her. He had risen and, despite the farcicality of Dr. Will Kennicott's bulgy trousers draped over his arm, he had the grace of a cat.
She fancied that his even grayness might reveal a thousand tints of lavender and blue and silver. At supper he hinted his love for Sir Thomas Browne, Thoreau, Agnes Repplier, Arthur Symons, Claude Washburn, Charles Flandrau. He presented his idols diffidently, but he expanded in Carol's bookishness, in Miss Sherwin's voluminous praise, in Kennicott's tolerance of any one who amused his wife.
She was alone in this house, this strange still house, among the shadows of dead thoughts and haunting repressions. "I hate it! I hate it!" she panted. "Why did I ever " She remembered that Kennicott's mother had brought these family relics from the old home in Lac-qui-Meurt. "Stop it! They're perfectly comfortable things. They're comfortable. Besides Oh, they're horrible!
Carol thought she heard a grunt from the traveling salesman at the end of the table, and Kennicott's jerking elbow was a grunt embodied. She persisted: "Do you get to see many plays, Mr. Wutherspoon?" He shone at her like a dim blue March moon, and sighed, "No, but I do love the movies. I'm a real fan.
She had been embarrassed by Kennicott's frankness, but she agreed with him that in the insane condition of civilization, which made the rearing of citizens more costly and perilous than any other crime, it was inadvisable to have children till he had made more money.
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