When the dishes were finished they locked up, hung the key on its nail outside among the wistaria, and went. At the corner of the street, Pat turned toward the town, while Jean continued straight on toward the foot of the hills.
From his comfortable rocker on the porch, Tom Morton looked up from the evening paper.
"A great day, wasn't it?" His broad face beamed with unintelligent good humor as he put down the paper preparatory to a chat. "You look terribly important in that rig, Jean. Makes me feel like I don't know how to write my name."
"Well, you won't feel like that much longer. It's the hottest rig ever invented."
"You all did look kind of red round the gills. I say, Jean, who was that girl that got the gold medal? Didn't look to me like she was terrible smart."
"She stood higher than anybody else."
"Wasn't you due for something extra? Seems to me a girl that gets a job helping a professor at his own work must be some bright."
"It's not really much of a job, just a few weeks."
"Graft, them medals, I guess, like everything else. There isn't a field in this country to-day——"
But Jean had disappeared.