“Oh very well, if you’re ashamed to tell her name,” said Audry. “You never even told me you knew such a girl. Is she dark or light?” “She’s dead for all I know,” said Tom. “Esther B. is carved on a rock along the trail.” They walked in silence toward where the clearing led into the trail, then along the narrow, obstructed way till the obscure, overgrown path ran close to the precipitous descent and the distant reservoir lay full in view. “That’s Woodstock,” said Tom; “that village about half-way.” “Oh I’d love to go there,” said Audry. “They must be _wonderful_, those people, those artists and writers. They’re doing something _really worth while_. They’re all _thinkers_.” “Well we’ve been doing a pretty good job on the mountain,” Tom said. “Oh don’t mention that work in the same breath with the Woodstock colony,” said Audry. “Those people down there are all _thinkers_. You don’t mean to say that Fairgreaves and Whalen and Billy the sailor are constructive, do you? That they are _originating_ anything, in the higher sense?” “No, I suppose we’re not,” said poor Tom. “You mean _they_, not _you_. I bet you’ve known a lot of girls that you never told me about—not dead ones.” “Yes, I’ve known some dead ones,” laughed Tom. Then instantly remorseful for the pleasantry he said, “But I’ve learned more from you than any girl I ever met; gee, you’ve got more brains than all of them put together.” “I suppose they invite you all over,” she said, “in Bridgeburgh where you live?” “Bridgeboro,” said Tom. “Do you correspond with any? I bet there’s one you like especially.” “I bet there is,” said Tom. “Tell me her name?” “It’s a funny name,” said Tom. “Is she interested in serious things? Tell me her name.” “Goodfellow,” said Tom. “She’s a boat.” Audry seemed relieved. But she did not forget to be argumentative. “You can’t say that you _love_ a boat,” she said. “Well, I wasn’t exactly talking about love,” said Tom. For a moment this seemed to silence her. Then she rose to the surface with the kind of analytical talk that always edified poor Tom. “You can’t say that you’re really fond of a thing that can’t offer any _response_. You can’t really say that you’re _fond_ of a boat. You might say you like a boat.” Tom seemed greatly impressed. “Well, I like that boat, you can bet,” he said. So then he told her about his only sweetheart, the _Goodfellow_. They sat on a rock some yards short of the first crevice and she listened to his recital of the charms of the gay little cruiser which it seemed he was permitted to like but not to love. He had never known before that there was anything technical about one’s feelings. And the distant _Goodfellow_ was Tom’s friend in this, that she made it easy for him to tell all that was on his mind. He told Audry he had first gone to inspect the boat admitting that it was a crazy thing to do. “Because I’m no more in her class than I am in yours,” he added.