Robina said that was different: in the case of an author it did not
matter. Robina's attitude towards the literary profession would not
annoy me so much were it not typical. To be a literary man is, in
Robina's opinion, to be a licensed idiot. It was only a week or two
ago that I overheard from my study window a conversation between
Veronica and Robina upon this very point. Veronica's eye had caught
something lying on the grass. I could not myself see what it was, in
consequence of an intervening laurel bush. Veronica stooped down and
examined it with care. The next instant, uttering a piercing whoop,
she leapt into the air; then, clapping her hands, began to dance.
Her face was radiant with a holy joy. Robina, passing near, stopped
and demanded explanation.
"Pa's tennis racket!" shouted Veronica--Veronica never sees the use
of talking in an ordinary tone of voice when shouting will do just as
well. She continued clapping her hands and taking little bounds into
the air.
"Well, what are you going on like that for?" asked Robina. "It
hasn't bit you, has it?"
"It's been out all night in the wet," shouted Veronica. "He forgot
to bring it in."
"You wicked child!" said Robina severely. "It's nothing to be
pleased about."
"Yes, it is," explained Veronica. "I thought at first it was mine.
Oh, wouldn't there have been a talk about it, if it had been! Oh my!
wouldn't there have been a row!" She settled down to a steady
rhythmic dance, suggestive of a Greek chorus expressing satisfaction
with the gods.
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