“Yes, it would jar you to have Bert butting in,” he said amiably.  “Are you going to do much fussing over this Community stunt?  Don’t you ever get tired of fretting and stewing and experimenting?”

“I haven’t even started.  Look!” She led him to the nursery door, pointed at the fuzzy brown head of her daughter.  “Do you see that object on the pillow?  Do you know what it is?  It’s a bomb to blow up smugness.  If you Tories were wise, you wouldn’t arrest anarchists; you’d arrest all these children while they’re asleep in their cribs.  Think what that baby will see and meddle with before she dies in the year 2000!  She may see an industrial union of the whole world, she may see aeroplanes going to Mars.”

“Yump, probably be changes all right,” yawned Kennicott.

She sat on the edge of his bed while he hunted through his bureau for a collar which ought to be there and persistently wasn’t.

“I’ll go on, always.  And I am happy.  But this Community Day makes me see how thoroughly I’m beaten.”

“That darn collar certainly is gone for keeps,” muttered Kennicott and, louder, “Yes, I guess you——­I didn’t quite catch what you said, dear.”

She patted his pillows, turned down his sheets, as she reflected: 

“But I have won in this:  I’ve never excused my failures by sneering at my aspirations, by pretending to have gone beyond them.  I do not admit that Main Street is as beautiful as it should be!  I do not admit that Gopher Prairie is greater or more generous than Europe!  I do not admit that dish-washing is enough to satisfy all women!  I may not have fought the good fight, but I have kept the faith.”

“Sure.  You bet you have,” said Kennicott.  “Well, good night.  Sort of feels to me like it might snow tomorrow.  Have to be thinking about putting up the storm-windows pretty soon.  Say, did you notice whether the girl put that screwdriver back?”