Linda leaned over and opened the car door.
“All well and good,” she said; “but why in the cause of reason didn’t you leave them at Peter’s and bring them down in his car?”
Henry Anderson laid the stones in the bottom of the car, stepped in and closed the door behind him. He drew a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his perspiring face and soiled hands.
“I had two sufficient personal reasons,” he said. “One was that the car at our place is Peter Morrison’s car, not mine; and the other was that it’s none of anybody’s business but my own if I choose to ‘say it’ with stones.”
Linda started the car, being liberal with gas—so liberal that it was only a few minutes till Henry Anderson protested.
“This isn’t the speedway,” he said. “What’s your hurry?”
“Two reasons seem to be all that are allowed for things at the present minute,” answered Linda. “One of mine is that you can’t drive this beast slow, and the other is that my workroom is piled high with things I should be doing. I have two sketches I must complete while I am in the mood, and I have had a great big letter from my friend, Marian Thorne, to-day that I want to answer before I go to bed to-night.”
“In other words,” said Henry Anderson bluntly, “you want me to understand that when I have reached your place and dumped these stones I can beat it; you have no further use for me.”
“You said that,” retorted Linda.
“And who ever heard of such a thing,” said Henry, “as a young woman sending away a person of my numerous charms and attractions in order to work, or to write a letter to another woman?”