"I liked her very much; she's very nice and ever so interesting," said
Sylvia.

"Bless you, she's nice enough and pretty enough; but about this college
business. I always say that if it ain't in a colt the trainer can't put
it there. My niece--that's Mrs. Bassett, Marian's mother--wants Marian
to be an intellectual woman,--the kind that reads papers on the poets
before literary clubs. Mrs. Bassett runs a woman's club in Fraserville
and she's one of the lights in the Federation. They got me up to
Fraserville to speak to their club a few years ago. It's one of these
solemn clubs women have; awful literary and never get nearer home than
Doctor Johnson, who was nothing but a fat loafer anyhow. I told 'em
they'd better let me off; but they would have it and so I went up and
talked on ensilage. It was fall and I thought ensilage was seasonable
and they ought to know about it if they didn't. And they didn't, all
right."

Sylvia had been staring straight ahead across the backs of the team; she
was conscious suddenly that Mrs. Owen was looking at her fixedly, with
mirth kindling in her shrewd old eyes. Sylvia had no idea what ensilage
was, but she knew it must be something amusing or Mrs. Owen would not
have laughed so heartily.

"It was a good joke, wasn't it--talking to a literary club about silos.
I told 'em I'd come back and read my little piece on 'Winter Feeding,'
but they haven't called me yet."

They had driven across to Meridian Street, and Mrs. Owen sent the horses
into town at a comfortable trot. They traversed the new residential area
characterized by larger grounds and a higher average of architecture.