She sunk back, loose in her chair. "I shall be the Laughing Stock,—the Laughing Stock," she says, looking wild and glazed.
"Yes," says I, deliberate, determined and serene, "they'll say you were going to dance around and cater to this family because they've moved into the Oldmoxon House. They'll say you wanted to make sure, right away, to get in with them. They'll repeat what you've been saying about the elegant furniture, in good taste. And about the academic and scholastic work being done. And about these folks being a distinct addition to Friendship Village society—"
"Don't, Calliope—oh, don't!" said Mis' Sykes, faint.
"Well, then," I says, getting up to leave, "go on ahead and act neighborly to them, the once, and decide later about keeping it up, as you would with anybody else."
It kind of swept over me—here we were, standing there, bickering and haggling, when out there on the planet that lay around Daphne Street were loose ends of creation to catch up and knit in.
"My gracious," I says, "I ain't saying they're all all right, am I? But I'm saying that as fast as those that try to grow, stick up their heads, it's the business of us that tootle for democracy, and for evolution, to help them on."
She looked at me, pitying.
"It's all so much bigger than that, Calliope," she says.
"True," says I, "for if some of them stick up their heads, it proves that more of them could—if we didn't stomp 'em down."
I got out in the air of the great, gold May day, that was like another way of life, leading up from our way. I took in a long breath of it—and that always helps me to see things big.