“Well, I didn’t know just what they were,” answered Kit cheerfully, “but I think they’re awfully interesting. Don’t you think that they look like the Breton fishermen in some of the old French paintings?”
“The Flambeaus have not a very good reputation, my dear,” the Dean coughed slightly behind his hand as he spoke. “The present generation may be law-abiding, but even within my memory, the Flambeaus had a little habit of stealing.”
“Stealing?” repeated Kit.
“Yes, fishing tackle and that sort of thing. Besides, there is the Indian strain in them, and they are squatters. There have been several lawsuits against them, and they have persisted in staying there on the shore when the property owners on the bluff distinctly purchased shore rights.”
“But, Bart, the Flambeaus won all their suits, didn’t they?” asked Della pleasantly. “I’m sure the older boys are very industrious, and I think the girl Jeanette is strikingly attractive. You’re not really forbidding Kit to go down there, I’m sure.”
The Dean said something that was lost in a murmur, for he had been one of the property owners defeated in the lawsuits by the Flambeaus. After breakfast Kit went upstairs with Della into her own little sitting room. This looked toward the street, out over the maple and pine-shaded lawn. Also, it commanded a good view of the college. This was built of gray stone and was overgrown with woodbine just beginning to show a tinge of crimson.
“It seems awfully queer, Aunt Della,” Kit said as she leaned out of the window, “to think that I’m going there into the prep class. Rex said on the way up here—”
She leaned suddenly farther out and waved. “Hi, Rex, are you coming over?”
Rex glanced up at the radiant face as he came along the hedge-bordered drive between his home and the Dean’s and waved back in neighborly fashion.
“I’m going up to the campus now,” he said. “Ask Miss Della if she’d let you be in the dramatic club. There’s a meeting this morning.”