did mean it that Kay was awfully lucky. Kay leaned forward. “You ought to get your cook to try the new way of fixing canned beans. You just add catsup and mustard and Worcestershire sauce and sprinkle them with plenty of brown sugar, cover them with bacon, and put them in the oven in a Pyrex dish.” “It sounds terribly good,” said Dottie, “but Daddy would die.” Harald nodded. He began to talk, very learnedly, about the prejudice that existed in conservative circles against canned goods; it went back, he said, to an old fear of poisoning that derived from home canning, where spoilage was common. Modern machinery and factory processes, of course, had eliminated all danger of bacteria, and yet the prejudice lingered, which was a pity since many canned products, like vegetables picked at their peak and some of the Campbell soups, were better than anything the home cook could achieve. “Have you tasted the new Corn Niblets?” asked Kay. Dottie shook her head. “You ought to tell your mother about them. It’s the whole-kernel corn. Delicious. Almost like corn on the cob. Harald discovered them.” She considered. “Does your mother know about iceberg lettuce? It’s a new variety, very crisp, with wonderful keeping powers. After you’ve tried it, you’ll never want to see the old Boston lettuce again. Simpson lettuce, they call it.” Dottie sighed. Did Kay realize, she wondered, that she had just passed the death sentence on Boston lettuce, Boston baked beans, and the Boston School cookbook?
Nevertheless, Dottie did intend, when she got up to the cottage, to pass some of Kay’s tips on to Mother. She had had Mother terribly on her conscience ever since she had got back to the Vassar Club that fatal morning (was it only two days ago?) and found a message that Gloucester had been calling the night before and again at 9.00 A.M. Telling her mother her first real lie—that she had spent the night with Polly in Polly’s aunt’s apartment—was one of the hardest things she had ever done. It still cut her heart to think that she could not tell Mother about her visit to the birth-control bureau and now to this doctor’s office, all of which would have interested Mother so tremendously as a Vassar woman with Lucy Stoners and women’s-rights fighters in her own college class. The cruel sense of withholding something had made Dottie more than usually alert to the small items of interest she could bring back to Gloucester in compensation—like Kay and Harald’s menus and housekeeping arrangements, which would vastly amuse Mother. Perhaps she could even tell her that Kay had been to birth-control headquarters and been sent on here to get this new device?
“Miss Renfrew,” called the nurse softly, and Dottie started and got up. Her eyes met Kay’s in a last desperate look, like a boarding-school girl summoned to the headmistress’ office, and she advanced slowly into the doctor’s consulting room, her knees shaking and knocking so that they would hardly hold her. At the desk sat a white-coated, olive-skinned woman with a big bun of black hair. The doctor was very handsome, about forty years old; her large black brilliant eyes rested on Dottie briefly like electric rays, while one broad hand with tapering fingers motioned Dottie to a chair. She began to take the medical history, just as if it were an ordinary consultation; her pencil matter-of-factly wrote down Dottie’s answers about measles and whooping cough, eczema and asthma. Yet Dottie became aware of a mesmeric, warm charm that emanated from her and that seemed to tell Dottie not to be afraid. It occurred to Dottie, almost with surprise, that they were both women. The doctor’s femininity was a reassuring part of her professional aspect, like her white coat; on her hand shone a broad gold wedding ring, which seemed to Dottie serene and ample, like the doctor herself.
“Have you ever had intercourse, Dorothy?” The question appeared to flow so naturally
Nevertheless, Dottie did intend, when she got up to the cottage, to pass some of Kay’s tips on to Mother. She had had Mother terribly on her conscience ever since she had got back to the Vassar Club that fatal morning (was it only two days ago?) and found a message that Gloucester had been calling the night before and again at 9.00 A.M. Telling her mother her first real lie—that she had spent the night with Polly in Polly’s aunt’s apartment—was one of the hardest things she had ever done. It still cut her heart to think that she could not tell Mother about her visit to the birth-control bureau and now to this doctor’s office, all of which would have interested Mother so tremendously as a Vassar woman with Lucy Stoners and women’s-rights fighters in her own college class. The cruel sense of withholding something had made Dottie more than usually alert to the small items of interest she could bring back to Gloucester in compensation—like Kay and Harald’s menus and housekeeping arrangements, which would vastly amuse Mother. Perhaps she could even tell her that Kay had been to birth-control headquarters and been sent on here to get this new device?
“Miss Renfrew,” called the nurse softly, and Dottie started and got up. Her eyes met Kay’s in a last desperate look, like a boarding-school girl summoned to the headmistress’ office, and she advanced slowly into the doctor’s consulting room, her knees shaking and knocking so that they would hardly hold her. At the desk sat a white-coated, olive-skinned woman with a big bun of black hair. The doctor was very handsome, about forty years old; her large black brilliant eyes rested on Dottie briefly like electric rays, while one broad hand with tapering fingers motioned Dottie to a chair. She began to take the medical history, just as if it were an ordinary consultation; her pencil matter-of-factly wrote down Dottie’s answers about measles and whooping cough, eczema and asthma. Yet Dottie became aware of a mesmeric, warm charm that emanated from her and that seemed to tell Dottie not to be afraid. It occurred to Dottie, almost with surprise, that they were both women. The doctor’s femininity was a reassuring part of her professional aspect, like her white coat; on her hand shone a broad gold wedding ring, which seemed to Dottie serene and ample, like the doctor herself.
“Have you ever had intercourse, Dorothy?” The question appeared to flow so naturally
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