“Oh, my dear Henry, wake up! You aren’t living in the Victorian period. She knows a lot more about everything than you think, and well for her that she does. Girls of to-day may be daring, they may be over confident, they may be hard, but at least they know something of the world outside their own environment. After all, life’s a tricky job for a woman—don’t begrudge her a little folly before she undertakes it.”
“I don’t. I like frivolous girls—in a way; but I don’t like to see a man with a brain marrying a kitten.”
“Polly Street isn’t a kitten. She’s never had to consider anything more serious than a golf course, but she’ll make good when the time comes. She’s shown that since she’s been here. But, Henry, why this sudden interest in match-making? Has he, by any chance, asked your valuable advice?”
“Good Heavens, no!”
“Match-making, you know, belongs to middle age. Young people are too self-centred to bother with it. I wonder if we’re nearly there? I’m dead.”
“Well, my aching feet tell me we are, Clara, but my manly intelligence suggests that if we’ve covered one-third of the distance we’re mighty lucky.”
“That’s about what I thought,” groaned Clara. “How’s your knee?”
“Peevish but possible. Shall we take a rest?”
“Oh dear, yes, and a bite.”
They topped the next rise. It was decidedly a rise and commanded a wide view of the flat part of the country. At a little distance rose a live oak whose low branches offered a slight shelter from the sun. A cooling breeze played about them, kicking up spirals of sand, and a prairie-dog village manifested eager interest in their presence. They ate their sandwiches and Hard returned to the subject of Scott and Polly.