“Think I would be any good as a substitute when it comes to field work?” inquired Peter casually. “I have looked at your desert garden so much I would know a Cotyledon if I saw it. I believe I could learn.”
“You wouldn’t have time to bother,” objected Linda. “You’re a man, with a man’s business to transact in the world. You have to hustle and earn money to pay for the bridge and changing the brook.”
“But I had money to pay for the brook and the bridge before I agreed to them,” said Peter.
“Well, then,” said Linda, “you should begin to hunt old mahogany and rugs.”
“I hadn’t intended to,” said Peter; “if they are to be old, I won’t have to do more than to ship them. In storage in Virginia there are some very wonderful old mahogany and rosewood and rugs and bric-à-brac enough to furnish the house I am building. The stuff belonged to a little old aunt of mine who left it to me in her will, and it was with those things in mind that I began my house. The plans and finishing will fit that furniture beautifully.”
“Why, you lucky individual!” said Linda. “Nowhere in the world is there more beautiful furniture than in some of those old homes in Virginia. There are old Flemish and Dutch and British and Italian pieces that came into this country on early sailing vessels for the aristocrats. You don’t mean that kind of stuff, do you, Peter?”
“That is precisely the kind of stuff I do mean,” answered Peter.
“Why Peter, if you have furniture like that,” cried Linda, “then all you need is Mary Louise.”
“Linda,” said Peter soberly, “you are trespassing on delicate ground again. You selected one wife for me and your plan didn’t work. When that furniture arrives and is installed I’ll set about inducing the lady of my dreams to come and occupy my dream house, in my own way. I never did give you that job. It was merely assumed on your part.”
“So it was,” said Linda. “But you know I could set that iris and run that brook with more enthusiasm if I knew the lady who was to walk beside it.”