le wheels attached to
her heels.

Percy is never demonstrative. But I could see that he was more than
impressed. He was amazed.

"My word!" he said very quietly.

"What does she make you think of?" I demanded.

Percy put down his teacup.

"Don't go away," I commanded, "but tell me what she makes you think of."
He still stood staring at her with puckered up eyes.

"She's like band-music going by!" he proclaimed. "No, she's more than
that; she's Wagner on wheels," he finally said. "No, not that! A Norse
myth in dimity!"

I told him it wasn't dimity, but he was too interested in Olga to listen
to me.

Half an hour later, when she met him, she was very shy. She turned an
adorable pink, and then calmly rebuttoned the two top buttons of her
waist, which had been hanging loose. And I noticed that Percy did
precisely what I saw Dinky-Dunk once doing. He sat staring absently yet
studiously at the milky white column of Olga's neck! And I had to speak
to him twice, before he even woke up to the fact that he was being
addressed by his hostess.

_Wednesday the Fifteenth_

Dinky-Dunk is back, and very busy again. During the day I scarcely get a
glimpse of him, except at meal-times. I have a steadily growing sense of
being neglected, but I know how a worried man hates petulance. The
really important thing is that Percy is giving Olga lessons in reading
and writing. For, although a Finn, she is a Canadian Finn from almost
the shadow of the sub-Arctics, and has had little chance for education.
But her mind is not obtuse.

Yesterday I asked Olga what she thought of Percival Benson. "Ah lak
heem," she calmly admitted in her majestic, monosyllabic way. "He is a
fonny leetle man." And the "fonny leetle man" who isn't really little,
seems to like Olga, odd as it may sound. They are such opposites, such
contradictions! Percy says she's Homeric. He says he never saw eyes that
were so limpid, or such pools of peace and calm. He insists on the fact
that she's essentially maternal, as maternal as the soil over which she
walks, as Percy put it. I told him what Dinky-Dunk had once told me,
about Olga killing a bull. The bull was a vicious brute that had
attacked her father and knocked him down. He was striking at the fallen
man with his fore-paws when Olga heard his cries. She promptly came for
that bull with a pitchfork. And speaking of Homer, it must have been a
pretty epical battle, for she killed the bull and left the for