When they were already old they had lost the money, which they had invested in an elevator.  They had given up their beloved yellow brick house and moved into these rooms over a store, which were the Gopher Prairie equivalent of a flat.  A broad stairway led from the street to the upper hall, along which were the doors of a lawyer’s office, a dentist’s, a photographer’s “studio,” the lodge-rooms of the Affiliated Order of Spartans and, at the back, the Perrys’ apartment.

They received her (their first caller in a month) with aged fluttering tenderness.  Mrs. Perry confided, “My, it’s a shame we got to entertain you in such a cramped place.  And there ain’t any water except that ole iron sink outside in the hall, but still, as I say to Champ, beggars can’t be choosers.  ’Sides, the brick house was too big for me to sweep, and it was way out, and it’s nice to be living down here among folks.  Yes, we’re glad to be here.  But——­Some day, maybe we can have a house of our own again.  We’re saving up——­Oh, dear, if we could have our own home!  But these rooms are real nice, ain’t they!”

As old people will, the world over, they had moved as much as possible of their familiar furniture into this small space.  Carol had none of the superiority she felt toward Mrs. Lyman Cass’s plutocratic parlor.  She was at home here.  She noted with tenderness all the makeshifts:  the darned chair-arms, the patent rocker covered with sleazy cretonne, the pasted strips of paper mending the birch-bark napkin-rings labeled “Papa” and “Mama.”

She hinted of her new enthusiasm.  To find one of the “young folks” who took them seriously, heartened the Perrys, and she easily drew from them the principles by which Gopher Prairie should be born again—­should again become amusing to live in.

This was their philosophy complete . . . in the era of aeroplanes and syndicalism: 

The Baptist Church (and, somewhat less, the Methodist, Congregational, and Presbyterian Churches) is the perfect, the divinely ordained standard in music, oratory, philanthropy, and ethics.  “We don’t need all this new-fangled science, or this terrible Higher Criticism that’s ruining our young men in colleges.  What we need is to get back to the true Word of God, and a good sound belief in hell, like we used to have it preached to us.”

The Republican Party, the Grand Old Party of Blaine and McKinley, is the agent of the Lord and of the Baptist Church in temporal affairs.

All socialists ought to be hanged.

“Harold Bell Wright is a lovely writer, and he teaches such good morals in his novels, and folks say he’s made prett’ near a million dollars out of ’em.”

People who make more than ten thousand a year or less than eight hundred are wicked.

Europeans are still wickeder.

It doesn’t hurt any to drink a glass of beer on a warm day, but anybody who touches wine is headed straight for hell.