At the door of her tent, she stopped, looking at him wistfully. She wished he could hide his hurt. If he had only some of the Innes’ pride!
“How are things?” She used their fond little formula.
“Oh, rotten!” growled Hardin, flinging away. The gate slammed behind him.
CHAPTER VIII
UNDER THE VENEER
AN hour later Innes, blinking from the sun, stepped into the tent, which had been partitioned with rough redwood boards into a bed-chamber on the right, a combination dining-room and “parlor” on the left. Her glance immediately segregated the three stalks of pink geraniums in the center of the Mexican drawn-work cloth that covered the table. Gerty, herself, in a fresh pink gingham frock, was dancing around the table to the tune of forks and spoons. It was just like Gerty to dress up to her setting, even though it were only a pitiful water-starved bouquet. She had often tried to analyze her sister-in-law’s hold on her brother; certainly they were not happy. Was it because she made him comfortable? Was it the little air of formality, or mystery, which she drew around her? Her rooms when Innes was allowed to enter them were always flawless; Gerty took deep pride in her housekeeping. Why was it, Innes wondered, that she could never shake off her suspicion of an underlying untidiness? There was always a closed door on Gerty’s processes.
“May I help?” The sun was still yellowing the room to her.
“Hello!” Hardin looked up from the couch where he was lying. Innes suspected it of being a frequent retreat. She had found it tumbled once when she ran over early. It was then that Gerty made it understood that she liked more formality. Innes was rarely in that tent except for meals now, or during her alternating week of house-chores.
“I was afraid I was late,” said the girl.
“Lunch will be ready in a few minutes,” announced Gerty Hardin. “Won’t you sit down? There’s the new Journal. Sam came to clean this morning, and I couldn’t get to the lunch until an hour ago.”
Innes, settling herself by the reading table, caught herself observing that it would not have taken her an hour to get a cold lunch. Still, it would never look so inviting! If Gerty’s domestic machinery was complicated and private, the results always were admirable. The early tomatoes were peeled as well as sliced, and were lying on a bed of cracked ice. The ripe black olives were resting in a lake of California olive oil. A bowl of crisp lettuce had been iced and carefully dried. The bread was cut in precise triangles; the butter had been shaved into foreign-looking roses. A pitcher of the valley’s favorite beverage, iced tea, stood by Hardin’s plate. There was a platter of cold meats.