"I'm so—so sorry."
"Why?"
"Because I hate it!"
"Perhaps I may be able to help you like it."
"No," positively, "you won't. It's so stupid and dry. I want you to teach me how to spell, that bothers me so; and I want to learn how to say Shakespeare's plays."
"Shakespeare!" Sargent exclaimed. "How old are you?"
"I'm going on twelve."
"And what do you like best of Master Shakepeare's?"
"I like the story about Orlando and Rosalind. Shall I say some of it for you? Let's go over there by the bench and you can hear me say it right now."
She tripped ahead of Sargent along a path that led from the drive, suddenly going slower when she saw that he could not follow her so rapidly. A little way down the path they came to the edge of the grove, where an iron bench was placed beneath one of the great trees, making an ideal place where one could sit in shady protection and gaze out upon a scene so dramatic in its breadth and majesty.