I was mad all the way through. I was mad at both men for behaving
like schoolboys. I was mad at Andrew for being so unreasonable,
yet in a way I admired him for it; I was mad at Mifflin for giving
Andrew a bloody nose, and yet I appreciated the spirit in which it
was done. I was mad at myself for causing all the trouble, and I was
mad at Parnassus. If there had been a convenient cliff handy I would
have pushed the old thing over it. But now I was in for it, and just
had to go on. Slowly I rolled up a long grade, and then saw Port
Vigor lying ahead and the broad blue stretches of the Sound.

Parnassus rumbled on with its pleasant creak, and the mellow sun and
sweep of the air soon soothed me. I began to taste salt in the wind,
and above the meadows two or three seagulls were circling. Like
all women, my angry mood melted into a reaction of exaggerated
tenderness and I began to praise both Andrew and Mifflin in my
heart. How fine to have a brother so solicitous of his sister's
welfare and reputation! And yet, how splendid the little, scrawny
Professor had been! How quick to resent an insult and how bold to
avenge it! His absurd little tweed cap was lying on the seat, and I
picked it up almost sentimentally. The lining was frayed and torn.
From my suit case in the van I got out a small sewing kit, and
hanging the reins on a hook I began to stitch up the rents as
Peg jogged along. I thought with amusement of the quaint life
Mr. Mifflin had led in his "caravan of culture." I imagined him
addressing the audience of Whitman disciples in Camden, and wondered
how the fuss ended. I imagined him in his beloved Brooklyn,
strolling in Prospect Park and preaching to chance comers his gospel
of good books. How different was his militant love of literature
from Andrew's quiet satisfaction. And yet how much they really had