"You're so queer, Calliope," says Mis' Sykes, tolerant. "You miss all the satisfaction of being exclusive. And you can't afford not to be."
"Mebbe not," says I, "mebbe not. But I'm willing to try it. Hang the expense!" says I.
Mis' Sykes didn't waste a day on her reception-surprise. I heard of it right off from Mis' Holcomb and Mis' Toplady and two-three more. They were all willing enough, not only because any excitement in the village is like a personal present to all of us, but because Mis' Sykes was interested. She's got a real gift for making folks think her way is the way. She's a real leader. Everybody wears a straw hat contented till, somewheres near November, Mis' Sykes flams out in felt, and then you begin right off to feel shabby in your straw, though new from the store that Spring.
"It does seem like rushing things a little, though," says Mis' Holcomb to me, very confidential, the next day.
"Not for me," I says. "I been vaccinated."
"What do you mean?" says she.
"Not even the small-pox can make me snub them," I explains.
"Yes, but Calliope," says Mis' Toplady in a whisper, "suppose it should turn out to be one of them awful places we read about. They have good furniture."
"Well," says I, "in that case, if thirty to forty of us went in with our baskets, real friendly, and done it often enough, I bet we'd either drive them out or turn them into better neighbors. Where's the harm?"
"Calliope," says Mame Holcomb, "don't you draw the line nowheres?"