“Gerty’s in bed, I suppose,” thought Tom. He had a sudden vivid picture of her accusing martyrdom. His mouth hardened again. Innes, stooping over a rose, passed out of his vision.
It came to Hardin suddenly that a man has made a circle of failure when he dreads going to his office and shrinks from the reproaches at home.
“A ‘has-been’ at forty!” he mused. Where were all his ships drifting?
Innes, straightening, waved a gay hand.
“She’s raising a goodly crop of barrels.” His thought mocked and caressed her. Her garden devotion was a tender joke with him. He loved the Hardin trait in her, the persistence which will not be daunted. An occupation with a Hardin was a dedication. He would not acknowledge the Innes blood in her. Like that fancy mother of hers? Innes was a Hardin through and through!
“It’s in the blood,” ran his thought. “She can’t help it. All the Hardins work that way. The Hardins always make fools of themselves!”
Innes, lifting her eyes from a crippled rose, saw that the black devils were consuming him again.
“Will you look at this wreck!” she cried.
The wind-storm the previous week had made a sickening devastation of her labors. The morning-glories alone were scatheless. A pink oleander drooped many broken branches from which miracles of perfect flowers were unfolding. The prettiest blossom to Hardin was the gardener herself. She was vivid from eager toil. Hardin looked at her approbatively. He liked her khaki suit, simple as a uniform, with its flowing black tie and leather belt. She looked more like herself to-day. She had bleached out, in Tucson. She had been letting herself get too tanned, running around without hats. Sunburn paled the value of those splendid yellow eyes of hers. He could always tease her by likening them to topazes.
“Cat’s eyes, why don’t you say it?”