“Bravo!” cried Muriel. “I feel inspired. The foils, Harrington—the foils!”
Harrington-who had been admiring while he spoke, the free, beautiful figure—started and went to the wall to take the weapons down.
“First, some exercise to get the muscles in order,” said Muriel.
She threw down her cap, and bounding forward, with the light strong spring of a bayadere, to the parallel bars, put her hands on the poles, and leaped up between them. Then, with a succession of springs, she traversed the whole length, leaping along the bars on her hands; then, back again to the centre, where she swung to and fro for an instant; and, as she rose again, vaulted over and alighted in the middle of the room, tossing the air into perfume.
“Bravo!” cried Wentworth. “That’s religion, as Emerson says.”
“Emerson!” chided Mrs. Eastman, amusedly. “Emerson never said any such thing.”
“More shame for him,” retorted Wentworth, gaily. “Kingsley says so, at any rate.”
“Kingsley!” she replied, in the same amused, chiding tone.
“Yes, ma mère,” asserted Wentworth. “That’s what Kingsley calls muscular Christianity, and I’m going in for some of it.”