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Then a rattle, a daring hope in every eye, the swinging of a door, the smell of strong coffee, Dave Dyer's mewing voice in a triumphant, “The eats!” They began to chatter. They had something to do. They could escape from themselves. They fell upon the food — chicken sandwiches, maple cake, drug-store ice cream. Even when the food was gone they remained cheerful. They could go home, any time now, and go to bed!

They went, with a flutter of coats, chiffon scarfs, and good-bys.

Carol and Kennicott walked home.

“Did you like them?” he asked.

“They were terribly sweet to me.”

“Uh, Carrie —— You ought to be more careful about shocking folks. Talking about gold stockings, and about showing your ankles to schoolteachers and all!” More mildly: “You gave 'em a good time, but I'd watch out for that, 'f I were you. Juanita Haydock is such a damn cat. I wouldn't give her a chance to criticize me.”

“My poor effort to lift up the party! Was I wrong to try to amuse them?”

“No! No! Honey, I didn't mean —— You were the only up-and-coming person in the bunch. I just mean —— Don't get onto legs and all that immoral stuff. Pretty conservative crowd.”