But of course I knew that that was just her manner of speaking, and that her husband didn't know a thing about what she was doing, and that probably it was one of those speeches that everybody keeps making, like when Mis' Bingy talked, in the depot, of taking her baby away from "a father's care." She went off in her automobile, and I stood on the step looking after her. The very thought that there could be anybody in the world like her, that would do what she'd done, made me feel like I understood the earth. I told Mis' Bingy, and she sat a long time looking out the window with her mouth open. "If Keddie had done that," she says, "I bet a quarter of a pound of tea, I'd blame the girl." I'd have thought everybody would. We talked it over. "Mis' Bingy," I says, "maybe they's ways to be decent we don't even _know_ about." She kep' her mouth open. "Then who's to blame if we don't act up to 'em, I donno," she says, after a while. "I donno, too," I says. "It must be somebody, though." And we both thought it must be. The next day was Sunday, and Mis' Bingy and I done what we'd been going to do for a long time. We walked up to the park, and inside the big building where the pictures are. Mis' Bingy set on a bench and fed the baby, while I wandered round. I guess you're supposed to feel nice and real awed when you first go to that big place. I guess you're supposed to be glad you live in a city where they're free to you. I thought I was going to have a good time. But instead of that I kept getting madder and madder. Once I begun to talk out loud, and I was afraid they'd put me out. It was when I come to a big room full of statues, with one big white one that said under it "Apollo." I'd never heard the name. I says to the man in the hall: "Can you tell me who that Apollo was--and why he's stuck up here?" "Catalogues twenty-five cents each, at the door," says the man. "Well," I says, "I ain't got the quarter to spare. But I thought mebbe you knew." "He was the Greek god of beauty and song," he says, stiff. And the next thing I knew I was standing there in front of the Greek god talking out loud. And I says: "I'd like to twist the nose off your face, just because I've never heard of you before--nor you--nor you--nor you--nor you. _Why_ ain't I never heard of you?" I run for Mis' Bingy. "Mis' Bingy," I says, "are you ready to go?" She followed me without a word. Out on the steps she says, shaking: "Which was it--Keddie or Carney?" "It was neither," I says, "it was that smart white god in there, and all the rest of 'em. Mis' Bingy! Folks _know_ about 'em. They know when they go there, and they know about pictures. I heard 'em talking. What's the reason we don't know?" "Go on!" says Mis' Bingy. "We ain't the kind of folks them things are calculated for." "It's a lie!" I says. "It's a lie! I could almost like 'em now--only I got so mad." I set down on a bench in the park, and cried. And I didn't care who heard me.