“Teddy!” she squealed joyfully, and jumped up. “I was just wondering when you’d come back. Come in and tell me about it. Where did you go and what happened? You’ve got a swell sunburn.”
He stepped inside and kissed her perfunctorily. “I want some lemonade,” he said. “Have you got any? If you haven’t I’m going down to the plaza, and I wish you’d tell Blake when he comes——”
“I can make some in a minute,” she said. “Sit down and cool off. How did you know I wasn’t out of town?”
“Passed by La Fonda and Margaret told me. Where are the cigarettes?”
“On the mantel,” she called from the kitchen, and began to chop ice vigorously. “Now tell me about the Navajo country. What happened?”
“Not much. Blake can tell you when he comes: I’m meeting him here. We got home late last night—Mrs. Saville-Sanders wanted to stop overnight in Albuquerque and they were having the Masonic Convention and all the hotels were full. You should have seen her!” He giggled. “She stood up and insisted on having rooms for all of us, and it didn’t do the slightest bit of good, naturally. So then she was crushed and wouldn’t speak for two hours on the way up, and we were all very tactful and didn’t say anything.” She could hear him roaming about the room, stopping here and there to pick things up and put them down again. When she came back with a pitcher and glasses, he was staring disgustedly at a small oil painting on the wall.
“Why do you keep that kind of stuff around?” he asked.
“It’s Flo, and she said it’s worth a lot of money. Here’s your lemonade.”
“Well, here’s to luck.”
“Is there any left for me?” Blake came in and sat down, panting from the heat. He held out his hand pleadingly for a glass.