What is she proud of? Nobody knows!”
Miss Piddiwit was an unfortunate figure of speech. Some imp of her mind, perhaps, some mischievous Puck of that unknown subliminal region it was who hoisted that forgotten picture of the old “Mother Goose” book up out of the mental depths and let it strut before her. Miss Piddiwit bore her head aloft at a perilous angle, and her little heels clicked on the pavement in staccato rhythm with the couplet, which the aforesaid subliminal imp took delight in chanting.
“Proud Miss Piddiwit, there she goes.
What is she proud of? Nobody knows!”
“Let’s walk,” she started up suddenly. “This night is too wonderful.”
“Good!” he agreed.
They dropped down the lawn, passed the summer-house without seeming to notice it at all, and took the State Road which leads north to Penn Yan.
“You are your mother’s daughter,” he announced abruptly. He spoke as if it were the summing-up of a train of thinking.
“Naturally,” she said.
They walked on for several seconds without speaking.