We waved our
hands and handkerchiefs, and Grandmother's fat old horses walked away
with her down the driveway.
"It's a pity," said the Skeptic to me impatiently, when they were out of
sight around the corner, and we had turned to go back to the house,
"that a girl like that can't see herself."
"Rhodora is very young yet," said I. "Perhaps by the time she is even as
old as the Gay Lady----"
"You don't think it," declared the Skeptic, looking ahead at the Gay
Lady as she walked by the Philosopher over the lawn toward the house.
"The two are no more the same sort--than----" he looked toward the
garden for inspiration and found it, as many a man before him has found
it, when searching after similes for the women he knows--"than those
yellow tiger-lilies of yours are like--a clump of hepaticas that you
find in the woods in spring."
* * * * *
That evening the Gay Lady had left us, as she sometimes does, and gone
in to play soft, old-time melodies on my piano, while the rest of us sat
silently listening.
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