"They can get somebody else."
"Oh, yes!" cried Cornelia, with mock humility; "I'm nobody; I can be easily replaced." She cast her humility aside lightly. "I'll tell you what I would do, though, if I was up at Pewaukee this eve. I'd paddle down to Lakeside and back—by the light of that moon." She pointed down the street towards the park foliage. "The moon that gilds those fruit-tree tops—Shakespeare. And it would be a good deal brighter up there than it is in this smoky old place."
"Can you row?" asked Ogden.
"Can I? I guess. Pair of oars made to order; and I can feather with 'em, too. Speaking of Lakeside, I know who's going to be there the last of this month; that Miss Bradley—Mrs. Floyd's niece."
"Cousin," corrected George.
"Is it? Cousin, then. She's a lively girl; she and I would make a pair. Only she don't look very strong."
"I thought," said he, "that she was going to Ocon—Ocon—"
Cornelia gave an encouraging ha, ha. "That's right! Take time and you'll get it. Mow, then; Ocono—"
"Ocono—"
"Mowoc."