" Peter knelt back in wonder.
"Of all the things I ever thought about you, Linda," he said,
"the one thing I never did think was that you were hysterical."
If there was one word in Linda's vocabulary more opprobrious than
"nerves," which could be applied to a woman, it was "hysterics."
The great specialist had admitted nerves; hysterics had no
standing with him. Linda herself had no more use for a
hysterical woman than she had for a Gila monster. She
straightened suddenly, and in removing her hands from her face
she laid one on each of Peter's shoulders.
"Oh, Peter," she wailed, "I am not a hysterical idiot, but I
couldn't have stood it if that coat had been yours. Peter, I
just couldn't have borne it!"
Peter held himself rigidly in the fear that he might disturb the
hands that were gripping him.
"I see I have the job of educating these damned field mice as to
where they may build with impunity," he said soberly.
But Linda was not to be diverted. She looked straight and deep
into his eyes.
"Peter," she said affirmatively, "you don't know a thing about
that coat, do you?"
"I do not," said Peter promptly.
"You never saw what was in its pockets, did you?"
"Not to my knowledge," answered Peter. "What was in the pockets,
Linda?"
Linda thought swiftly. Peter adored his dream house. If she
told him that the plans for it had been stolen by his architect,
the house would be ruined for Peter. Anyone could see from the
candor of his gaze and the lines that God and experience had
graven on his face that Peter was without guile.
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