Roger shook his head. "That's an awkward and expensive solution. The answer's in the engine!"
He began to figure on an old envelope. When this was covered, he continued his calculations on the margin of an old newspaper spread over the work house table. Long after Gustav and Ernest had gone about their day's business Elsa found him here, sweating in the stifling glare from the sun and sand, hair disheveled, shirt open at the throat. Elsa looked almost cool in comparison in her soft white blouse and one of Charley's khaki skirts.
"Well, Roger," she exclaimed, "hasn't your cook the decency to wash the breakfast dishes for you?"
"It does look rotten, doesn't it?" said Roger, staring vaguely around the kitchen. "But the cook seems to be on a strike and I forgot to clean things up."
"If you'll get out of the way, I'll do it." Elsa began to roll up her sleeves.
"It's too hot now. Wait until late afternoon," suggested Roger, glancing from his papers out to the yellow waves of heat dancing from sand to deep blue of sky.
"I can stand the heat if Charley can," returned Elsa. "She's baking bread and cookies. The thermometer on the porch says 112°. I should judge that it was about 190° in her kitchen. Rog, do you know that she's a highly educated girl? Why do you suppose she's throwing her life away down here, cut off from everything?"
Roger looked up from his figures with a little sigh of resignation.
"What did you say, Elsa?"
Elsa smiled but repeated her inquiry.