“I remembered,” he said, “that Li was a doctor, and thought perhaps you’d loan him to us for Jimmy. We don’t think much of the Conejo medico.”
“Himmel, no!” responded Herrick, quickly. “You shall have Li, of course.”
Polly leaned back with a little sigh of content. Herrick smiled.
“You are tired,” he said, “and by and by you will be chilly. Henry, as Li is busy, suppose you build up a fire in the living-room?”
Polly looked a bit surprised, but Hard laughed as he went into the house.
“Herrick never does any rough work,” he said, indulgently. “He has to take care of his hands.”
“So!” replied their host, “my fingers are my good friends, consequently I take good care of them. Why not? Some day I may need their services again.”
“I hope so,” said Polly, frankly. “I think it’s rather dreadful for an artist to bury himself in a place like this.”
“One does not bury oneself, my child, one rests and creates,” said the musician, gently. “Ah, here is Scott! He has been looking at my wagon.”
Scott tossed Polly her long cloak which she had left on her saddle.