“And it is to the society of people of that description that you are forcing me back. Forcing me back, do you hear? After fifty years of freedom! For the last ten of them, the desolate freedom of the wild ass, as you say—and I hope you think it is a proper remark for you to make—”
“I will not repeat it, Mrs. Damian,” replied Miss Folly, who had not opened her lips.
“See that you don’t! Look! They are going to start. Folly, I—I hope the child will win!”
“I hope she will. It is between her and the Desmond girl, certainly.”
“Trip up the Desmond girl! Throw a stone in front of her, can’t you? You have no invention, Folly. My Indian Amma would have had a snake up her sleeve, at the very least. Western civilization—so-called—is abhorrent to me, do you hear? There they go!”
The girls were ranged at the head of the broad allée; five of them: Patricia, Honor, Stephanie, Vivette, and Desirée de Laval, who, though only thirteen, was tall and long-legged. A pretty sight they were, in their white tunics and sandals. A silver whistle sounded a single clear note; they stood at attention, tense as a strung bow, waiting for the start; a second note, and with a flutter of white garments, a shimmer of bright hair, they were off.
The allée was one hundred yards long; the course was twice the length of it. For the first fifty yards the girls kept well together; after that, practice, weight, and form began to tell. Vivette had no chance from the first, and knew it; she “went in” for every prize as a matter of principle and policy, and pounded along doggedly, bent on doing her best, whatever might be the result. Stephanie made a dash for the lead, but not attaining it, soon lost courage.
Oliver Wendell Holmes, usually the kindliest of writers, has shot one barbed arrow at my sex.
“The cow began to run,” he says, “as only cows and—it would not be safe to say it—can run.”
I wish the dear Doctor could have seen Honor and Patricia run. Vivette was cow-like, if you will; Stephanie was swift, but jerky, and with “not one particle of style!” as Helena Desmond murmured to herself. As they came down the allée on the first lap, these two were already dropping behind. Desirée, who was to make in time a notable runner, had not yet found herself, and was leaping like a colt, arms and legs flying like the sails of a windmill.