One November evening she and Con were sitting in the library, Truedale at his desk, Lynda idly and luxuriously rocking to and fro, her hands clasped over her head. She had learned, at last, the joy of absolute relaxation.
“There’s a big snow-storm setting in,” she said, smiling softly. Then, apropos of nothing: “Con, we’ve been married four years and over!”
“Only that, Lyn? It seems to me like my whole life.”
“Oh, Con—so long as that?”
“Blessedly long.”
After another pause Lynda spoke merrily: “Con, I want some of Uncle William’s money. A lot of it.”
Truedale tossed her a new check book. “Now that you see there is no string tied to it,” he said, “may I ask what for? Just sympathetic interest, you know.”
“Of course. Well, it’s this way. Betty and I are broke. It’s fine for you to make roads and build schools and equip the youth of America for getting all the learning they can carry, but Betty and I are after the babies. We’ve been agonizing over the Saxe Home—Betty’s on the Board—and before Christmas we are going to undress all those poor standardized infants and start their cropped hair to growing.”
Truedale laughed heartily. “Intimacy with Betty,” he said, “has coloured your descriptive powers, Lyn, dear.”
“Oh, all happy women talk one tongue.”