She and her mother, and Beryl and Aunt Lodema, Terence Weaver--deuce take him!--and two other fellows, and a Gertrude--somebody--I forget just who.

Edith hoped that I would make my peace with Uncle Homer, so they could see something of me.

(If I had told her how easy it was to make peace with "Uncle Homer," and how he had turned me down, she might not have been quite so sure that it was all my bull-headedness.) She complained that Gertrude was engaged to one of the fellows, and so was awfully stupid; and Beryl might as well be-- I tore up the letter just there, and the wind, which was howling that day, caught the pieces and took them over into North Dakota; so I don't know what else Edith may have had to tell me.

I'd read enough to put me in a mighty nasty temper at any rate, so I suppose its purpose was accomplished.

Edith is like all the rest: If she can say anything to make a man uncomfortable she'll do it, every time.
This day, I remember, I went mooning along, thinking hard things about the world in general, and my little corner of it in particular.