Carol could not endure it.  She ran to Vida, kissed her forehead, comforted her with a murmur of dove-like sounds, sought to reassure her with worn and hastily assembled gifts of words:  “Oh, I appreciate it so much,” and “You are so fine and splendid,” and “Let me assure you there isn’t a thing to what you’ve heard,” and “Oh, indeed, I do know how sincere Will is, and as you say, so—­so sincere.”

Vida believed that she had explained many deep and devious matters.  She came out of her hysteria like a sparrow shaking off rain-drops.  She sat up, and took advantage of her victory: 

“I don’t want to rub it in, but you can see for yourself now, this is all a result of your being so discontented and not appreciating the dear good people here.  And another thing:  People like you and me, who want to reform things, have to be particularly careful about appearances.  Think how much better you can criticize conventional customs if you yourself live up to them, scrupulously.  Then people can’t say you’re attacking them to excuse your own infractions.”

To Carol was given a sudden great philosophical understanding, an explanation of half the cautious reforms in history.  “Yes.  I’ve heard that plea.  It’s a good one.  It sets revolts aside to cool.  It keeps strays in the flock.  To word it differently:  ’You must live up to the popular code if you believe in it; but if you don’t believe in it, then you must live up to it!’”

“I don’t think so at all,” said Vida vaguely.  She began to look hurt, and Carol let her be oracular.

III

Vida had done her a service; had made all agonizing seem so fatuous that she ceased writhing and saw that her whole problem was simple as mutton:  she was interested in Erik’s aspiration; interest gave her a hesitating fondness for him; and the future would take care of the event. . . .  But at night, thinking in bed, she protested, “I’m not a falsely accused innocent, though!  If it were some one more resolute than Erik, a fighter, an artist with bearded surly lips——­They’re only in books.  Is that the real tragedy, that I never shall know tragedy, never find anything but blustery complications that turn out to be a farce?

“No one big enough or pitiful enough to sacrifice for.  Tragedy in neat blouses; the eternal flame all nice and safe in a kerosene stove.  Neither heroic faith nor heroic guilt.  Peeping at love from behind lace curtains—­on Main Street!”

Aunt Bessie crept in next day, tried to pump her, tried to prime the pump by again hinting that Kennicott might have his own affairs.  Carol snapped, “Whatever I may do, I’ll have you to understand that Will is only too safe!” She wished afterward that she had not been so lofty.  How much would Aunt Bessie make of “Whatever I may do?”

When Kennicott came home he poked at things, and hemmed, and brought out, “Saw aunty, this afternoon.  She said you weren’t very polite to her.”