“You very decent kid, you,” he said appreciatively. “I certainly am enough of a wizard to save your Peter man any disillusionment concerning his dream house.”
“Oh, but he is not my Peter man,” said Linda. “We are only the best friends in the world. Really and truly, if you can keep a secret, he’s Marian’s.”
“Is he?” asked Mr. Snow interestedly. And then he added very casually, in the most off-hand manner—he said it more to an orange orchard through which they were passing than he said it to Linda—“I have very grave doubts about that. I think there must be some slight complication that will have to be cleared up.”
Linda’s heart gave a great jump of consternation.
“Indeed no,” she said emphatically. “I don’t think he has just told Marian yet, but I am very sure that he cares for her more than for any other woman, and I am equally sure she cares for him; and nothing could be more suitable.”
“All right then,” agreed Mr. Snow.
Linda put the Bear-cat at the mountain, crept around the road, skirted the boulders, and stopped halfway to the garage. And there, in a low tone, she indicated to Mr. Snow where they had lunched, when she found the plans, how she had brought out the coat, where she had emptied the mouse nest. Then she stepped from the car and hallooed for Peter. Peter came hurrying from the garage, and Eugene Snow was swift in his mental inventory. It coincided exactly with Linda’s. He would have been willing to join hands with Peter and start around the world, quite convinced of the fairness of the outcome, with no greater acquaintance than one intent look at Peter, one grip of his sure hand. After that he began to act on Katy’s hint, and in a very short time he had convinced himself that she was right. Maybe Peter tried to absorb himself in the plans he was going over, in the house he was proud to show the great architect; but it seemed to the man he was entertaining that his glance scarcely left Linda, that he was so preoccupied with where she went and what she did that he was like a juggler keeping two mental balls in the air at the same time.
It seemed to Peter a natural thing that, the architect being in the city on business, he should run out to call on Miss Thorne’s dearest friend. It seemed to him equally natural that Linda should bring him to see a house in which she was so kindly interesting herself. And just when Peter was most dexterous in his juggling, just when he was trying to explain the very wonderful step-saving, time-saving, rational kitchen arrangements and at the same time watch Linda on her course down to the spring, the architect halted him with a jerk. Eugene Snow stood very straight, his hands in his coat pockets, looking, Peter supposed, with interest at the arrangements of kitchen conveniences. His next terse sentence fairly staggered Peter. He looked him straight in the eye and inquired casually: “Chosen your dream woman to fit your house, Morrison?”
Peter was too surprised to conceal his feelings. His jaws snapped together; a belligerent look sprang into his eyes.
“I have had a good deal to do with houses,” continued Mr. Snow. “They are my life work. I find that invariably they are built for a woman. Almost always they are built from her plans, and for her pleasure. It’s a new house, a unique house, a wonderful house you’re evolving here. It must be truly a wonderful woman you’re dreaming about while you build it.”