"I believe it would be better if we both cleared out and left them to fight this out alone."
"Perhaps it would."
"Darrie, Oh, Darrie!—want to come for a walk with Hildreth and me?"
So the three set off together, leaving me and Ruth alone.
Ruth and I had just settled down to a discussion of the writing of narrative poetry, how it was done, and the reason why it was no longer customary with the poets to write longer stories out of real life, like Chaucer's Canterbury Tales,—when we heard a rustling as of some wild thing in the bushes beside the house, and here came Hildreth breaking through, her eyes blazing, her hair down, her light walking skirt that she had slipped on over her bloomers torn by catching on thorns.
She staggered into the open, swept us with a blazing glance as if we had done something to her, and hurried on down the path toward the little house where Penton had written in quiet till she had strangely routed him out and taken its occupancy for herself.
"Hildreth!" I leaped to my feet, starting after her, "Hildreth what's the matter?"
I had put all thought of narrative poetry out of my head.