But it was Stewart Snyder whom she encouraged.
He was so much manlier than the others; he was an
even warm brown, like his new ready-made suit with
its padded shoulders. She sat with him, and with
two cups of coffee and a chicken patty, upon a pile
of presidential overshoes in the coat-closet under
the stairs, and as the thin music seeped in, Stewart
whispered:
“I can’t stand it, this breaking up after
four years! The happiest years of life.”
She believed it. “Oh, I know! To think
that in just a few days we’ll be parting, and
we’ll never see some of the bunch again!”
“Carol, you got to listen to me! You always
duck when I try to talk seriously to you, but you
got to listen to me. I’m going to be a big
lawyer, maybe a judge, and I need you, and I’d
protect you——”
His arm slid behind her shoulders. The insinuating
music drained her independence. She said mournfully,
“Would you take care of me?” She touched
his hand. It was warm, solid.
“You bet I would! We’d have, Lord,
we’d have bully times in Yankton, where I’m
going to settle——”
“But I want to do something with life.”
“What’s better than making a comfy home
and bringing up some cute kids and knowing nice homey
people?”
It was the immemorial male reply to the restless woman.
Thus to the young Sappho spake the melon-venders;
thus the captains to Zenobia; and in the damp cave
over gnawed bones the hairy suitor thus protested to
the woman advocate of matriarchy. In the dialect
of Blodgett College but with the voice of Sappho was
Carol’s answer:
“Of course. I know. I suppose that’s
so. Honestly, I do love children. But there’s
lots of women that can do housework, but I—well,
if you have got a college education, you ought
to use it for the world.”
“I know, but you can use it just as well in
the home. And gee, Carol, just think of a bunch
of us going out on an auto picnic, some nice spring
evening.”
“Yes.”
“And sleigh-riding in winter, and going fishing——”
Blarrrrrrr! The orchestra had crashed into the
“Soldiers’ Chorus”; and she was
protesting, “No! No! You’re a
dear, but I want to do things. I don’t
understand myself but I want—everything
in the world! Maybe I can’t sing or write,
but I know I can be an influence in library work.
Just suppose I encouraged some boy and he became a
great artist! I will! I will do it!
Stewart dear, I can’t settle down to nothing
but dish-washing!”
Two minutes later—two hectic minutes—they
were disturbed by an embarrassed couple also seeking
the idyllic seclusion of the overshoe-closet.
After graduation she never saw Stewart Snyder again.
She wrote to him once a week—for one month.
