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As she went respectably home, convoyed by a husband, and decorously holding up her skirts, Carol rejoiced, "Everything has changed! I have two friends, Fern and But who's the other? That's queer; I thought there was Oh, how absurd!" She often passed Erik Valborg on the street; the brown jersey coat became unremarkable.
Don't you realize that if Ma Westlake and a few others got started they'd drive you up a tree, and you'd find yourself so well advertised as being in love with this Valborg fellow that you'd HAVE to be, just to spite 'em!" "Let me sit down," was all Carol could say. She drooped on the couch, wearily, without elasticity.
"I told you that Westlake and his wife were jealous of us, and here you been chumming up to them and From what Dave tells me, Ma Westlake has been going around town saying you told her that you hate Aunt Bessie, and that you fixed up your own room because I snore, and you said Bjornstam was too good for Bea, and then, just recent, that you were sore on the town because we don't all go down on our knees and beg this Valborg fellow to come take supper with us.
Boarding with the Widow Bogart was Fern Mullins, a girl of twenty-two who was to be teacher of English, French, and gymnastics in the high school this coming session. Fern Mullins had come to town early, for the six-weeks normal course for country teachers. Carol had noticed her on the street, had heard almost as much about her as about Erik Valborg.
We planned that Will and you should come down and have supper at our cottage." "No. I'm sure you didn't mean to be." Carol was super-neighborly. "But I do think you ought to apologize to poor Erik Valborg. He was terribly hurt." "Oh. Valborg. I don't care so much what he thinks," objected Harry. "He's nothing but a conceited buttinsky.
Just because you are so innocent, you don't know what evil thoughts may lurk in that fellow's brain." "You don't suppose Valborg could actually think about making love to me?" Her rather cheap sport ended abruptly as Vida cried, with contorted face, "What do you know about the thoughts in hearts? You just play at reforming the world. You don't know what it means to suffer."
Valborg down-stairs say he vant to see you." She was conscious of the maid's interested stare, angry at this shattering of the calm in which she had hidden. She crept down, peeped into the living-room. It was not Erik Valborg who stood there; it was a small, gray-bearded, yellow-faced man in mucky boots, canvas jacket, and red mittens. He glowered at her with shrewd red eyes. "You de doc's wife?"
He looked through her with a contemptuousness such as she could not have imagined. Only an insane contortion of spelling could portray his lyric whine, his mangled consonants. He clamored, "Presume! Dot's a fine word! I don't want no fine words and I don't want no more lies! I want to know what you KNOW!" "See here, Mr. Valborg, you may stop this bullying right now. I'm not one of your farmwomen.
Did you enjoy it?" "Oh yes. I raced Cy at swimming. He beat me badly. He's so strong, isn't he!" "Poor boy, just crazy to get into the war, too, but This Erik Valborg was along, wa'n't he?" "Yes." "I think he's an awful handsome fellow, and they say he's smart. Do you like him?" "He seems very polite." "Cy says you and him had a lovely boat-ride. My, that must have been pleasant."
She saw Erik Valborg coming, in an ancient highwater suit, tramping sullenly and alone, striking at the rails with a stick. For a second she unreasoningly wanted to avoid him, but she kept on, and she serenely talked about God, whose voice, Hugh asserted, made the humming in the telegraph wires. Erik stared, straightened. They greeted each other with "Hello." "Hugh, say how-do-you-do to Mr.
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