“Oh, yes,” responded Gerty absently. She was wondering what in the world she would do about the unpeeled grapes, and the unfinished shades and the name-cards. Perhaps she could do with eleven. Innes had offered to help; she supposed she could put her to work at the grapes. But she hated to have people help, people who looked scornful and superior. She could hear her say: “Why all this fuss? Why not a simpler salad?” If worse came to worse, she could put a plain card at her husband’s place, and her own. She needed Mrs. Youngberg’s help with the table—
“I’m afraid I’m putting you out,” her friend was taking note of the discomfiture. “You are not ready?”
Mrs. Hardin hastened to deny that. “Oh, yes! I was just thinking what I’d take along. Will you come in?” For once, she was grateful to the Youngberg habit of the buggy. She took the answer for granted, and the tent door mangled the response of the niece of Senator Graves.
When she came out, her arms were overflowing with bundles. A large hat box surmounted the smaller ones, held in place by her chin. The top bulged open. As she reached the sidewalk, her progress grew precarious, for a slight wind was blowing. She had not closed the hat box in fear of her precious shades.
“Give me something,” cried Mrs. Youngberg. She caught the band-box. A gust of evil wind raised the top; one of the shades blew out, and Gerty, helpless with crockery in her hands, watched it tumble toward the irrigation ditch. It danced, the pretty thing of pastel green and white, on the surface of the muddy stream.
“You can save it,” cried Mrs. Youngberg. “Oh, what a pity!” For as she spoke it collided with a floating branch. Mud-splashed and ruined, it sailed down the street.
“Oh, never mind that,” protested Gerty with magnificence. She forced a cheery smile as she clambered over her parcels into the buggy.
“And I was one short already!” she remembered as they drove down the main street, the buggy heaped high with boxes holding the treasured shades, the cards and napkins, and a few choice plates. The supper was to be at the hotel, but Gerty planned to use her own dishes and cutlery—to give it a home-like feeling! Coulter’s two clerks gaped at them from the store as they passed; the buggy trailing long willow branches, and Gerty with her boxes obscuring her vision.
In front of Fred Eggers’ store the usual group of Indians lounged, the squaws careening in many ruffles, the bucks brave in paint and shirts, heavy with beads. Young Morton bowed to them from the bank windows on which a man was laboriously working. He had already finished a faint black outline, The Desert Bank, and was beginning to fill in the first letter with gold-leaf. The festive buggy made quite a stir in the desert town; every one had heard of the progressive drive.
“The ditch is running very high this morning,” observed Mrs. Youngberg, noting its muddy flow.