“How was your meeting?” asked her husband. A kind of glow came over Adeline Thorstad’s face. “It was a lovely meeting. I am sure that it is significant that so many women, even women like old Mrs. Reece will come to hear a talk on their civic responsibilities. You should have managed to come, Freda.” Freda put an arm about her mother’s shoulders. “I couldn’t,” she said. “I’d have spoiled the circle of thought. I don’t care whether women vote or not.” She was six inches taller than her mother’s neat prettiness and at first glance not nearly so attractive. Her rather coarse hair was too thick and pulled back into a loose low knot and her features were heavier than those of her mother’s, her skin less delicate. The neat pyramid of her mother’s blond hair, her smooth, fair skin were almost as they had been fifteen years before. But Freda showed more promise for fifteen years hence. Her hair shaded from yellow to orange red, her eyes were deep blue and her loose-hung, badly managed figure showed a broad gracefulness that her mother’s lacked. She had somehow taken the little qualities of her mother’s prettiness and made them grander, so that she seemed to have been modeled from an imperfect idea rather than a standard type. In her father was the largeness of build which might have accounted for her, though not too obviously for Mr. Thorstad stooped a little and days in the classroom had drained his face of much natural color. Still he had carried over from some ancestor a suggestion of power which he and his daughter shared. “Don’t talk like that, Freda. It’s so reactionary. Women nowadays--” “I know. But I don’t especially approve of women nowadays,” teased Freda. “I think that maybe we were a lot more interesting or delightful or romantic as we were when we didn’t pretend to have brains.” But her mother ignored her. “Don’t talk nonsense,” she said. “Set the table and then I must tell you my news.” They were used to news from Mrs. Thorstad. She was full of the indomitable energy that created little events and situations and exulted in them. Victories in the intrigues of the district federated clubs, small entanglements, intricate machinations were commonplaces to her husband and daughter since Mrs. Thorstad had become district vice-president. So now when the sausage, flanked by its mound of mashed potatoes, came sizzling to the table and Freda had satisfied her soul by putting three sprays of red marsh-berries in a dull green bowl in the middle, they looked forward to dinner with more anticipation than to Mrs. Thorstad’s surprise. But she began impressively, and without delay. “I think that this entrance of women into politics may alter the whole course of our lives.” Freda and her father exchanged a whimsical friendly glance in which no disrespect blended. “No doubt,” said Mr. Thorstad. “If I were called to public office, think what a difference it would make!” “What difference?” asked Freda.