And here Miss Hoffman did an unaccountable thing. Wise Penelope unraveled by night the work she wove by day. Like her in this, Miss Ellinor Hoffman now placidly snipped and ripped the basting threads, unraveled them patiently, and set to work afresh.
“Now, there’s no such thing as a Ginko tree;
There never was—though there ought to be.
And ’tis also true, though most absurd,
There’s no such thing as a Wallabye bird!”
Miss Hoffman was all in white, with a white middy blouse trimmed in scarlet, a scarlet ribbon in her dark hair: a fine-linked gold chain showed at her neck. A very pretty picture she made, cool and fresh against the deep shade and the green—but of course she did not know it. She held the shaping kimono at arm’s length, admiring the delicate color, and fell to work again.
“Oh, the jolly miller, he lives by himself!
As the wheel rolls around he gathers in his pelf,
A hand in the hopper and another in the bag—
As the wheel rolls around he calls out, ‘Grab!’”
So intent and preoccupied was she, that she did not hear the approaching horse.
“Good evening!”
“Oh!” Miss Hoffman jumped, dropping the long-suffering kimono. A horseman, with bared head, had reined up in the shaded road alongside. “How silly of me not to hear you coming! If you’re looking for Mr. Sutherland, he’s not here—Mr. David Sutherland, that is. But Mr. Henry Sutherland is here—or was awhile ago—maybe half an hour since. He was trying to get up a set of tennis. Perhaps they’re playing—over there on the other side of the house. And yet, if they were there, we’d hear them laughing—don’t you think?”
Mr. Bransford—for it was Mr. Bransford, and he was all dressed in clothes—waited with extreme patience for the conclusion of these feverish and hurried remarks.
“But I’m not looking for Sutherland. I’m looking for you!”