SHE had often been invited to the weekly meetings of the Thanatopsis, the women’s study club, but she had put it off. The Thanatopsis was, Vida Sherwin promised, “such a cozy¹ group, and yet it puts you in touch with all the intellectual thoughts that are going on everywhere.”
Early in March Mrs. Westlake, wife of the veteran physician, marched into Carol’s living-room like an amiable² old pussy³ and suggested, “My dear, you really must come to the Thanatopsis this afternoon. Mrs. Dawson is going to be leader and the poor soul is frightened to death. She wanted me to get you to come. She says she’s sure you will brighten up the meeting with your knowledge of books and writings. (English poetry is our topic today.) So shoo! Put on your coat!”
“English poetry? Really? I’d love to go. I didn’t realize you were reading poetry.”
“Oh, we’re not so slow!”
Mrs. Luke Dawson, wife of the richest man in town, gaped⁴ at them piteously when they appeared. Her expensive frock of beaver-colored satin with rows, plasters, and pendants of solemn brown beads⁶ was intended for a woman twice her size. She stood wringing⁷ her hands in front of nineteen folding chairs, in her front parlor⁸ with its faded photograph of Minnehaha Falls in 1890, its “colored enlargement” of Mr. Dawson, its bulbous lamp painted with sepia cows and mountains and standing⁹ on a mortuary marble column.
She creaked, “O Mrs. Kennicott, I’m in such a fix. I’m supposed to lead the discussion, and I wondered would you come and help?”
“What poet do you take up today?” demanded Carol, in her library tone of “What book do you wish to take out?”
“Why, the English ones.”
“Not all of them?”

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