That evening Guy Pollock came in and, though Kennicott instantly impressed him into a cribbage game, Carol was happy again.

V

She did not, in recovering something of her buoyancy, forget her determination to begin the liberalizing of Gopher Prairie by the easy and agreeable propaganda of teaching Kennicott to enjoy reading poetry in the lamplight.  The campaign was delayed.  Twice he suggested that they call on neighbors; once he was in the country.  The fourth evening he yawned pleasantly, stretched, and inquired, “Well, what’ll we do tonight?  Shall we go to the movies?”

“I know exactly what we’re going to do.  Now don’t ask questions!  Come and sit down by the table.  There, are you comfy?  Lean back and forget you’re a practical man, and listen to me.”

It may be that she had been influenced by the managerial Vida Sherwin; certainly she sounded as though she was selling culture.  But she dropped it when she sat on the couch, her chin in her hands, a volume of Yeats on her knees, and read aloud.

Instantly she was released from the homely comfort of a prairie town.  She was in the world of lonely things—­the flutter of twilight linnets, the aching call of gulls along a shore to which the netted foam crept out of darkness, the island of Aengus and the elder gods and the eternal glories that never were, tall kings and women girdled with crusted gold, the woful incessant chanting and the——­

“Heh-cha-cha!” coughed Dr. Kennicott.  She stopped.  She remembered that he was the sort of person who chewed tobacco.  She glared, while he uneasily petitioned, “That’s great stuff.  Study it in college?  I like poetry fine—­James Whitcomb Riley and some of Longfellow—­this ‘Hiawatha.’  Gosh, I wish I could appreciate that highbrow art stuff.  But I guess I’m too old a dog to learn new tricks.”

With pity for his bewilderment, and a certain desire to giggle, she consoled him, “Then let’s try some Tennyson.  You’ve read him?”

“Tennyson?  You bet.  Read him in school.  There’s that: 

     And let there be no (what is it?) of farewell
     When I put out to sea,
     But let the——­

Well, I don’t remember all of it but——­Oh, sure!  And there’s that ’I met a little country boy who——­’ I don’t remember exactly how it goes, but the chorus ends up, ‘We are seven.’”

“Yes.  Well——­Shall we try ‘The Idylls of the King?’ They’re so full of color.”

“Go to it.  Shoot.”  But he hastened to shelter himself behind a cigar.

She was not transported to Camelot.  She read with an eye cocked on him, and when she saw how much he was suffering she ran to him, kissed his forehead, cried, “You poor forced tube-rose that wants to be a decent turnip!”

“Look here now, that ain’t——­”

“Anyway, I sha’n’t torture you any longer.”

She could not quite give up.  She read Kipling, with a great deal of emphasis: