Molly and Aurora, with Jim as escort, were close behind.
“This is one of the most beautiful spots I have ever seen,” said Molly. “The picturesque grandeur of the Rockies is missing, to be sure, but there is something fascinating about these low, quiet mountains. It makes one feel as if one could stay here forever and ever.”
“Come—don’t get poetical, Molly,” warned Jim. “This is a very modern gathering, and blank verse is not appreciated.”
“Nothing was farther from my thoughts than blank verse, Jim Barlow, and you know it!”
“Sounded like blank verse to me,” and Jim grinned.
“You mustn’t blame me for being enthused over such sights as these. If you do not experience the same sensation, there is something sadly deficient in your make-up.”
“That’s right, Molly; rub it in,” Dorothy said, over her shoulder. “Jim is entirely too practical—too prosaic—for this old world of ours. We simply must have a little romance mixed in with our other amusements, and poetry is naturally included.”
“Hopelessly overruled,” murmured Jim. “So sorry I spoke. Go ahead, Molly; sing about the rocks and rills, the crags and—and—”
“Pills?” suggested Aurora.
“Well, anything you wish; I’m no poet.”