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Updated: June 3, 2025
"I don't know." "Elevated 'em, did n't he? Did n't he elevate Pem?" "Yes, sir." "Always remember that; you want to fix your mind on leading things. Remember that Pericles elevated the Greeks. Who was Pericles? "He was a" "Was he a philosopher?" "Yes, sir." "No, he was n't. Socrates was a philosopher. When did he flourish?" And so on, and so on.
Across the lake the golden glory stole, and girls came tip-toeing to the hearth-flame in soft, ceremonial dress, fringed and beaded, the firelight, like dawn, flushing the pearl of their headbands, and Pem forgot the enigma of that eighteen-year-old youth who seemed to have a trick of bobbing up, now and again, under the lee of a summer holiday, like some menacing spar to leeward of a vessel in fair sail.
Daft lassie, I tell ye the noo, I'm keepin' some fagots, An' a stick, too, for you! "Singing whack fol de ri do! De ri do! "A lassie, a dog, And an auld rowan tree, The mair that you thwacks 'em, The better they be!" "'Thwacks 'em! Pshaw! he's flinging that in my direction having a fling at me for sitting in the Devil's Chair," laughed Pem, but the laughter was bitter, two-edged. "Oh!
Pem was staring intently at the speaker, her black brows drawn together over eyes as speculatively blue as ever they had been in Toandoah's laboratory when grasping, or trying to, grave problems of the air. "Oh! I know. I know!" she cried suddenly, the blue breaking up in the firelight into a harlequin patchwork of merry gleams. "A henkyl! Why-y! it's a joke.
"Didn't I didn't I t-tell you it was him?" burst forth Pem, with all the vehemence of a little spring torrent, in Una's ear as she caught the ring of the chaffing voice which had railed at the Fates for "wishing a wreck on" to unoffending youth, and was so boldly challenging them now.
Una's little nose, piquantly tiptilted, warmed from a fashionable orchid-color to a cheery rose pink, with the excitement, the pressing adventure of trailing firewood among the rocks and dragging it captive to the new-born blaze which Pem was fanning with her breath and with the breezy bellows of her short green skirt.
"I shan't!" replied that child of luxury, as arbitrarily, slipping it back under the pallid cheek, above which the stand of agony in the stony eye told that the man was suffering almost to a point of delirium now. "Who ever thought Una would be such a brick?" Pem nibbled the words between her chattering teeth.
"I don't know." "Elevated 'em, did n't he? Did n't he elevate Pem?" "Yes, sir." "Always remember that; you want to fix your mind on leading things. Remember that Pericles elevated the Greeks. Who was Pericles? "He was a" "Was he a philosopher?" "Yes, sir." "No, he was n't. Socrates was a philosopher. When did he flourish?" And so on, and so on.
There's a vain elf in you somewhere, Pem, that sleeps in the shadow of the Wise Woman." "Maybe maybe, there's a nickum! That's Andrew's word, Andrew's word for an imp, a tomboy. He's the Grosvenors' Scotch chauffeur, you know, who talks with a thistle under his tongue. Well! nickum, or not!" the girl was a rosy weathercock again.
There's a girl here who doesn't want you!" rang back the voice of callow chivalry in the barbarous pipe of the tenderfoot. And Pem, slipping up from the grass, her hands to her burning cheeks for she had not meant it to go as far as this stole back to the piazza, to dance away from the shamefaced ecstasy of reprisal in her heart.
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