"Imogen was by his side,
So they wandered far and wide,
The woods and vales stretched left and right,
He loved the girl with all his might,
So dropping on his bended knee
He cried, 'Oh, fair one, pity me.'"
A peal of laughter followed this closing line. It was a merry peal without malice or guile. Hester turned. Erma was standing in the doorway.
"Oh, but that is rich! He dropped on his bended knee. Could he get on his knee if it wasn't bended?" She laughed aloud.
"You are so literal!" cried Hester with dignity. "In poetry, one is allowed—"
"Poetry," another merry laugh. "Is that poetry? Take it to Doctor Weldon's classes and let her put her seal of approval on it."
Erma had made her way to the door. With a mock courtesy and a sweep of her skirts, she vanished. But as she went down the corridor, the girls in Sixty-two caught the echo of her laugh and her song, "And dropping on his bended knee."
Miss Bucher was a lady who arose to the occasion. She did not give way to merriment. Her face was colorless and serene.
"I understand fully, Miss Alden, the point you wish to make. Miss Thomas has no literary appreciation." She paused. There is but one thing worse in the world than adverse just criticism, and that is praise so faint that it is damaging. Miss Bucher paused as though to weigh her words. Then she spoke: "Miss Thomas means well enough, but—well, nature has not gifted us all in the same way."
It was fair enough, or seemed to be. Yet Hester felt that intangible something to which one cannot respond, because one feels rather than knows of its existence.
Miss Bucher arose. She was not given to furbelows. Each line of her attire accentuated her angles and height.