If there was one word in Linda’s vocabulary more opprobrious than “nerves,” which could be applied to a woman, it was “hysterics.” The great specialist had admitted nerves; hysterics had no standing with him. Linda herself had no more use for a hysterical woman than she had for a Gila monster. She straightened suddenly, and in removing her hands from her face she laid one on each of Peter’s shoulders.
“Oh, Peter,” she wailed, “I am not a hysterical idiot, but I couldn’t have stood it if that coat had been yours. Peter, I just couldn’t have borne it!”
Peter held himself rigidly in the fear that he might disturb the hands that were gripping him.
“I see I have the job of educating these damned field mice as to where they may build with impunity,” he said soberly.
But Linda was not to be diverted. She looked straight and deep into his eyes.
“Peter,” she said affirmatively, “you don’t know a thing about that coat, do you?”
“I do not,” said Peter promptly.
“You never saw what was in its pockets, did you?”
“Not to my knowledge,” answered Peter. “What was in the pockets, Linda?”
Linda thought swiftly. Peter adored his dream house. If she told him that the plans for it had been stolen by his architect, the house would be ruined for Peter. Anyone could see from the candor of his gaze and the lines that God and experience had graven on his face that Peter was without guile. Suddenly Linda shot her hands past Peter’s shoulders and brought them together on the back of his neck. She drew his face against hers and cried: “Oh Peter, I would have been killed if that coat had been yours. I tell you I couldn’t have endured it, Peter. I am just tickled to death!”