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Updated: May 23, 2025
Sheer cliffs, with the bonny green grass atop all furrowed by the wind and the yellow-flowered broom and the shimmering whinns blowing. "Why, it's Scotland," he said aloud, "it's Glenark Cliffs and the Head of Strathlone my people's fine place in the Old World where we took root and O my God! Yankee that I am, it looks like home!"
"Men might think so." He smiled: "Quite right, Yellow-hair; woman only is competent to size up woman. The trouble is that no man really believes this." "Don't you?" "I don't know. Tell me, what shall we do after luncheon?" "Oh, the moors please, Kay!" "What!" he exclaimed laughingly; "you're already a victim to Glenark moors!"
He caressed her hair while he spoke: "From here to Belfort," he was saying in his musing, agreeable voice, "and from Belfort to Paris; and from Paris to London, and from London to Strathlone Head, and from Strathlone Head to Glenark Cliffs, and from Glenark Cliffs to Isla Water, and from Isla Water to our home! Our home, Yellow-hair," he repeated. "What do you think of that?"
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