“I’ve been thinking about a girl named Esther,” said Tom; “Esther B—”
“You never told me about her. What’s her last name?”
“B,” said Tom.
“Oh very well, if you’re ashamed to tell her name,” said Audry. “You never even told me you knew such a girl. Is she dark or light?”
“She’s dead for all I know,” said Tom. “Esther B. is carved on a rock along the trail.”
They walked in silence toward where the clearing led into the trail, then along the narrow, obstructed way till the obscure, overgrown path ran close to the precipitous descent and the distant reservoir lay full in view.
“That’s Woodstock,” said Tom; “that village about half-way.”
“Oh I’d love to go there,” said Audry. “They must be wonderful, those people, those artists and writers. They’re doing something really worth while. They’re all thinkers.”
“Well we’ve been doing a pretty good job on the mountain,” Tom said.
“Oh don’t mention that work in the same breath with the Woodstock colony,” said Audry. “Those people down there are all thinkers. You don’t mean to say that Fairgreaves and Whalen and Billy the sailor are constructive, do you? That they are originating anything, in the higher sense?”