"Adown the orchard aisles they come, methinks,—
My lord who guardest well his treasure chests,
Attended by his squire and faithful drudge,
And back to town I soon must lightly skip
Else father will be roaring for his tea."
She was, indeed, a mystifying being! It was not until the absurdity of her last line broke upon him that he saw that this was only another side of Phil the inexplicable. She threw up her arm and signaled to her Uncle Amzi, who was approaching with Perry. The interruption was unwelcome. It had been a bewildering experience to sit beside Phil on the sunny orchard slope. He had not known that any girl could be like this.
"Do you write poetry?" he asked, from the depths of his humility.
She turned with a mockery of disdain.
"I should think you could see, Mr. Holton, that these are not singing robes, nor is this lovely creation of a hat wrought in the similitude of a wreath of laurel; but both speak for the plain prose of life. You have, therefore, no reason to fear me."
In a moment they were all on their way to the house; and soon Phil and Amzi were driving homeward.
"What was Fred Holton talking to you about?" asked Amzi, as he shook the reins over the back of his roadster.
"He wasn't talking to me, Amy; I was talking to him. He's a nice boy."
"He doesn't run so much to gold watches and chains as the rest of 'em. He seems to be pretty decent. Perry says he's got the right stuff in him." And then, with more animation: "Those Holtons! Thunder!"