“Of course.”
“Perry Miller. I live with my old beast of an Aunt Tom down at Stovepipe Town. Dad was a sea-captain and I uster sail with him when he was alive—sailed everywhere. Go to school?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t—never did. Aunt Tom lives so far away. Anyhow, I didn’t think I’d like it. Guess I’ll go now, though.”
“Can’t you read?” asked Emily wonderingly.
“Yes—some—and figger. Dad learned me some when he was alive. I hain’t bothered with it since—I’d ruther be down round the harbour. Great fun there. But if I make up my mind to go to school I’ll learn like thunder. I s’pose you’re awful clever.”
“No—not very. Father said I was a genius, but Aunt Elizabeth says I’m just queer.”
“What’s a genius?”
“I’m not sure. Sometimes it’s a person who writes poetry. I write poetry.”
Perry stared at her.