Main Street by Sinclair Lewis (ink book reader .TXT) 📕

her; took her unresponsive hand. “Carol! You have been happy here tonight? (Yes. I’m begging!)”

She squeezed his hand quickly, then snatched hers away. She had but little of the curiosity of the flirt, and none of the intrigante’s joy in furtiveness. If she was the naive girl, Guy Pollock was the clumsy boy. He raced about the office; he rammed his fists into his pockets. He stammered, “I⁠—I⁠—I⁠—Oh, the devil! Why do I awaken from smooth dustiness to this jagged rawness? I’ll make I’m going to trot down the hall and bring in the Dillons, and we’ll all have coffee or something.”

“The Dillons?”

“Yes. Really quite a decent young pair⁠—Harvey Dillon and his wife. He’s a dentist, just come to town. They live in a room behind his office, same as I do here. They don’t know much of anybody⁠—”

“I’ve heard of them. And I’ve never thought to call. I’m horribly ashamed. Do bring them⁠—”

She stopped, for no very clear reason, but his expression said, her faltering admitted, that they wished they had never mentioned the Dillons. With spurious enthusiasm he said, “Splendid! I will.” From the door he glanced at her, curled in the peeled leather chair. He slipped out, came back with Dr. and Mrs. Dillon.

The four of them drank rather bad coffee which Pollock made on a kerosene burner. They laughed, and spoke of Minneapolis, and were tremendously tactful; and Carol started for home, through the November wind.

XIV

She was marching home.

“No. I couldn’t fall in love with him. I like him, very much. But he’s too much of a recluse. Could I kiss him? No! No! Guy Pollock at twenty-six I could have kissed him then, maybe, even if I were married to someone else, and probably I’d have been glib in persuading myself that ‘it wasn’t really wrong.’

“The amazing thing is that I’m not more amazed at myself. I, the virtuous young matron. Am I to be trusted? If the Prince Charming came⁠—

“A Gopher Prairie housewife, married a year, and yearning for a ‘Prince Charming’ like a bachfisch of sixteen! They say that marriage is a magic change. But I’m not changed. But⁠—

“No! I wouldn’t want to fall in love, even if the Prince did come. I wouldn’t want to hurt Will. I am fond of Will. I am! He doesn’t stir me, not any longer. But I depend on him. He is home and children.

“I wonder when we will begin to have children? I do want them.

“I wonder whether I remembered to tell Bea to have hominy tomorrow, instead of oatmeal? She will have gone to bed by now. Perhaps I’ll be up early enough⁠—

“Ever so fond of Will. I wouldn’t hurt him, even if I had to lose the mad love. If the Prince came I’d look once at him, and run. Darn fast! Oh, Carol, you are not heroic nor fine. You are the immutable vulgar young female.

“But I’m not the faithless wife who enjoys confiding that she’s ‘misunderstood.’ Oh, I’m not, I’m not!

“Am I?

“At least I didn’t whisper to Guy about Will’s faults and his blindness to my remarkable soul. I didn’t! Matter of fact, Will probably understands me perfectly! If only⁠—if he would just back me up in rousing the town.

“How many, how incredibly many wives there must be who tingle over the first Guy Pollock who smiles at them. No! I will not be one of that herd of yearners! The coy virgin brides. Yet probably if the Prince were young and dared to face life⁠—

“I’m not half as well oriented as that Mrs. Dillon. So obviously adoring her dentist! And seeing Guy only as an eccentric fogy.

“They weren’t silk, Mrs. Dillon’s stockings. They were lisle. Her legs are nice and slim. But no nicer than mine. I hate cotton tops on silk stockings.⁠ ⁠… Are my ankles getting fat? I will not have fat ankles!

“No. I am fond of Will. His work⁠—one farmer he pulls through diphtheria is worth all my yammering for a castle in Spain. A castle with baths.

“This hat is so tight. I must stretch it. Guy liked it.

“There’s the house. I’m awfully chilly. Time to get out the fur coat. I wonder if I’ll ever have a beaver coat? Nutria is not the same thing! Beaver⁠—glossy. Like to run my fingers over it. Guy’s mustache like beaver. How utterly absurd!

“I am, I am fond of Will, and⁠—Can’t I ever find another word than ‘fond’?

“He’s home. He’ll think I was out late.

“Why can’t he ever remember to pull down the shades? Cy Bogart and all the beastly boys peeping in. But the poor dear, he’s absentminded about minute⁠—minush⁠—whatever the word is. He has so much worry and work, while I do nothing but jabber to Bea.

“I mustn’t forget the hominy⁠—”

She was flying into the hall. Kennicott looked up from the Journal of the American Medical Society.

“Hello! What time did you get back?” she cried.

“About nine. You been gadding. Here it is past eleven!” Good-natured yet not quite approving.

“Did it feel neglected?”

“Well, you didn’t remember to close the lower draft in the furnace.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. But I don’t often forget things like that, do I?”

She dropped into his lap and (after he had jerked back his head to save his eyeglasses, and removed the glasses, and settled her in a position less cramping to his legs, and casually cleared his throat) he kissed her amiably, and remarked:

“Nope, I must say you’re fairly good about things like that. I wasn’t kicking. I just meant I wouldn’t want the fire to go out on us. Leave that draft open and the fire might burn up and go out on us. And the nights are beginning to get pretty cold again. Pretty cold on my drive. I put the side-curtains up, it was so chilly. But the generator is working all right now.”

“Yes. It is chilly. But I feel fine after my walk.”

“Go walking?”

“I went up to see the Perrys.” By a definite act of will she added