"Yes—I guess so." Duvall once more picked up the newspaper. "But, naturally, I can't help feeling a certain interest in any striking and novel case that I may read about."
"And I haven't a doubt," laughed Grace, "that you wish that you were back in harness again a dozen times a day. Come now—'fess up. Don't you?"
"Sometimes," granted her husband, with a smile. "You know I loved my work. It always seemed to take me out of the dull routine of existence, and give me a new feeling of interest. I shouldn't mind if I had a novel and interesting case to work on right now."
"Would you take one, if it were offered to you?" asked Grace quickly.
"No—I guess not. I haven't forgotten my promise."
"Well—I've decided to release you from that, Richard. I really think you need a little mental exercise and diversion. All play and no work, you know——" She began to arrange the dogwood blossoms she had gathered before breakfast, in a big vase on the table.
Duvall laughed.
"I'm getting along very well," he said. "Don't forget I'm expecting to have that corner lot planted in potatoes to-day." He rose, and coming over to his wife, playfully pinched her cheek. "What's the matter, dear?" he asked. "Are you pining for a little trip to New York yourself? We don't need a murder mystery to make that possible, you know."
Grace shook her head. As she did so, the telephone bell in the hall began to ring. "That may be your murder mystery now," she said, with a laugh.
"More likely the Clarks asking us over to dinner this evening," he returned, as he made his way into the hall.