"I heard her say the other day that
she saved every peculiarly marked boulder she could find to
preserve coolness and moisture in her fern bed."
Linda leaned over and opened the car door.
"All well and good," she said; "but why in the cause of reason
didn't you leave them at Peter's and bring them down in his car?"
Henry Anderson laid the stones in the bottom of the car, stepped
in and closed the door behind him. He drew a handkerchief from
his pocket and wiped his perspiring face and soiled hands.
"I had two sufficient personal reasons," he said. "One was that
the car at our place is Peter Morrison's car, not mine; and the
other was that it's none of anybody's business but my own if I
choose to 'say it' with stones."
Linda started the car, being liberal with gas--so liberal that it
was only a few minutes till Henry Anderson protested.
"This isn't the speedway," he said. "What's your hurry?"
"Two reasons seem to be all that are allowed for things at the
present minute," answered Linda. "One of mine is that you can't
drive this beast slow, and the other is that my workroom is piled
high with things I should be doing. I have two sketches I must
complete while I am in the mood, and I have had a great big
letter from my friend, Marian Thorne, today that I want to answer
before I go to bed tonight."
"In other words," said Henry Anderson bluntly, "you want me to
understand that when I have reached your place and dumped these
stones I can beat it; you have no further use for me.
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