“Aggie, I say,” said Cecily to her sister, “you know—that girl can run.” Mr. John Germain, as the pivot of his thoughts was touched, turned with animation to the speaker.
“Indeed, yes. She runs like Atalanta, Miss Cecily, if you know who Atalanta was.”
Miss Cecily wriggled. She was fifteen. “Yes, I know. She raced with Milanion, and picked up the apple. I don’t think Mary’s a bit like her.”
“She is as swift, I am sure,” said Mr. Germain. “But it’s true she has not yet picked up the apple. Perhaps that will lie in front of her some day, and then she’ll be caught.”
“He didn’t catch her,” said Cecily. “She stopped, and he won.”
“True,” Mr. Germain replied smiling. “You and I mean the same thing, I believe.”
To this Miss Cecily had no reply but a sudden jerk of the leg. Mrs. Bingham beamed upon her hostess.
“The Earthly Paradise! My Cecily adores it. But who is their Atalanta, dear Mrs. Germain?”
Mrs. James Germain said that she had no notion, which was quite untrue. Aggie replied to her mother by pointing out the nymph of the chase. Mrs. Bingham clasped her hands.
“There again! Your extraordinary fortune! Mary, of course—that nice teacher you have. Quite a charming person!”