"
Peter smiled a slow curious smile.
"I like your line of thought, Linda," he said quietly. "It
greatly appeals to me. Any time an ancient and patriarchal
literary man named Peter Morrison can serve as a rock upon which
a young thing can rest, why he'll be glad to be that rock."
"What were you doing?" asked Linda abruptly.
"Come and see," said Peter.
He led the way to the garage. His worktable and the cement floor
around it were littered with sheets of closely typed paper.
"I'll have to assemble them first," said Peter, getting down on
his knees and beginning to pick them up.
Linda sat on a packing case and watched him. Already she felt
comforted. Of course Peter was a rock, of course anyone could
trust him, and of course if the tempest of life beat upon her too
strongly she could always fly to Peter.
"May I?" she inquired, stretching her hand in the direction of a
sheet.
"Sure," said Peter.
"What is it?" inquired Linda lightly. "The bridge or the road or
the playroom?"
"Gad!" he said slowly. "Don't talk about me being a rock! Rocks
are stolid, stodgy unresponsive things. I thought I was
struggling with one of the biggest political problems of the day
from an economic and psychological standpoint. If I'd had sense
enough to realize that it was a bridge I was building, I might
have done the thing with some imagination and subtlety. If you
want a rock and you say I am a rock, a rock I'll be, Linda.
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