The car was running smoothly. The sun of early
morning was shining on them through bracing, salt, cool air, and
even in the valley the larks were busy, and the mockingbirds, and
from every wayside bush the rosy finches were singing. All the
world was coming to the exquisite bloom of a half-tropical
country. Up from earth swept the heavy odors of blooming citrus
orchards, millions of roses, and the overpowering sweetness of
gardens and cultivated flowers; while down from the mountains
rolled the delicate breath of the misty blue lilac, the pungent
odor of California sage, and the spicy sweet of the lemonade
bush. They were two young things, free for the day, flying down
a perfect road, adventuring with Providence. They had only gone
a few miles when Donald Whiting took off his hat, stuffed it down
beside him, and threw back his head, shaking his hair to the wind
in a gesture so soon to become familiar to Linda. She glanced
across at him and found him looking at her. A smile broke over
her lips. One of her most spontaneous laughs bubbled up in her
throat.
"Topping, isn't it!" she cried gaily.
"It's the best thing that ever happened to me," answered Donald
Whiting instantly. "Our car is a mighty good one and Dad isn't
mean about letting me drive it. I can take it frequently and can
have plenty of gas and take my crowd; but lordy, I don't believe
there's a boy or girl living that doesn't just positively groan
when they see one of these little gray Bear Cats go loping past.
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