In a flash Betty had snapped down the lid of the absurdly big desk, closed the filing cabinet, adjusted the typewriter top, and picked up a book and her keys. “In ten minutes,” she said, bundling Jim out ahead of her and locking the door. “If you should have to wait, you can be finding me a switch for a riding-crop. Mine’s broken. See you in ten minutes.” And she was off down the hill to change her dress.
Jim watched her lithe little figure out of sight, and then strode off to get the horses, whistling loudly. It was a triumph, even with the assistance of Queen and the promise of a secret, to have lured Betty Wales from her official duties for a whole long, sunshiny afternoon.
They galloped out of town at a pace to scandalize the sedate dwellers on Elm Street. Where the road passed the Golf Club, under the flickering shade of tall oaks, Betty drew up to a walk and leaned forward to pat Queen’s glossy neck.
“That was perfectly splendid, Jim,” she declared. “Doesn’t it make you wish you were a bird?”
“Makes me think I’m a bird when I go cross-country out in Colorado, over a meadow of soft, springy turf, and then splash through a brook, and out into the first real shade I’ve seen for a week, maybe. Makes me wish I was a cow-puncher when I think of it now.”
“Then you couldn’t be the distinguished architect of Morton Hall,” Betty reminded him gaily. “Tell me the grand secret, Jim.”
Jim looked disappointed. He had hoped she would forget about the secret. “Oh, it’s not so much,” he said. “Only if your august Highness wishes to eat her Thanksgiving dinner in Morton Hall, Morton Hall will be ready for her.”
“Jim! How splendid! Are you perfectly sure?”
Jim nodded grimly. “I’ve slaved and I’ve made the men slave, and we didn’t do it for the peppery Mr. Morton, either. We did it for you, because you seemed to think a few days would make such a big difference. Well, they do—in a way, of course.”
“How do you mean?” asked Betty innocently.