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They all laughed artificially, and Carol obediently “talked libraries.”

A small-town bungalow, the wives of a village doctor and a village dry-goods merchant, a provincial teacher, a colloquial brawl over paying a servant a dollar more a week. Yet this insignificance echoed cellar-plots and cabinet meetings and labor conferences in Persia and Prussia, Rome and Boston, and the orators who deemed themselves international leaders were but the raised voices of a billion Juanitas denouncing a million Carols, with a hundred thousand Vida Sherwins trying to shoo away the storm.

Carol felt guilty. She devoted herself to admiring the spinsterish Miss Villets — and immediately committed another offense against the laws of decency.

“We haven't seen you at the library yet,” Miss Villets reproved.

“I've wanted to run in so much but I've been getting settled and —— I'll probably come in so often you'll get tired of me! I hear you have such a nice library.”

“There are many who like it. We have two thousand more books than Wakamin.”