Never, while the children of that schoolroom lived, would they
be able to forget one detail of the four lithographs: the hand of
Longfellow was fixed, for them, forever, in his beard. And by a simple
and unconscious association of ideas, Penrod Schofield was accumulating
an antipathy for the gentle Longfellow and for James Russell Lowell and
for Oliver Wendell Holmes and for John Greenleaf Whittier, which would
never permit him to peruse a work of one of those great New Englanders
without a feeling of personal resentment.
His eyes fell slowly and inimically from the brow of Whittier to
the braid of reddish hair belonging to Victorine Riordan, the little
octoroon girl who sat directly in front of him. Victorine's back was as
familiar to Penrod as the necktie of Oliver Wendell Holmes. So was her
gayly coloured plaid waist. He hated the waist as he hated Victorine
herself, without knowing why. Enforced companionship in large quantities
and on an equal basis between the sexes appears to sterilize the
affections, and schoolroom romances are few.
Victorine's hair was thick, and the brickish glints in it were
beautiful, but Penrod was very tired of it. A tiny knot of green ribbon
finished off the braid and kept it from unravelling; and beneath the
ribbon there was a final wisp of hair which was just long enough to
repose upon Penrod's desk when Victorine leaned back in her seat. It was
there now. Thoughtfully, he took the braid between thumb and forefinger,
and, without disturbing Victorine, dipped the end of it and the green
ribbon into the inkwell of his desk.
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