She was moved to
protest when Eileen followed and without saying a word began to
assist her, but she restrained herself, for it suddenly occurred
to her that it would be an excellent thing for Eileen to think
more of what she was doing and why she was doing it than about
whether she would wet her feet or muddy her fingers. So the
protest became an explanation that it was rather late for cress:
the leaves toughened when it bloomed and were too peppery. The
only way it could be used agreeably was to work along the edges
and select the small tender shoots that had not yet matured to
the flowering point. When they had an armload they went back to
the car, and without any explanation Linda drove into Los Angeles
and stopped at the residence of Judge Whiting, not telling Eileen
where she was.
"Friends of mine," said Linda lightly as she stepped from the
car. "Fond of cress salad with their dinner. They prepare it
after the Jane Meredith recipe to which you called my attention,
in Everybody's Home last winter. Come along with me."
Eileen stepped from the car and followed. Linda led the way
round the sidewalk to where her quick ear had located voices on
the side lawn. She stopped at the kitchen door, handed in the
cress, exchanged a few laughing words with the cook, and then
presented herself at the door of the summerhouse. Inside, his
books and papers spread over a worktable, sat Donald Whiting.
One side of him his mother was busy darning his socks; on the
other his sister Louise was working with embroidery silk and
small squares of gaily colored linen.
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