"Oh, Kit, do stop," begged Jean. "It's too hot to sing."
Kit looked out at the widespread view of Greenacres, rich with the uncut grass, billowing with every vagrant breeze, like distant waves. It was hot in the kitchen, hot and close.
"I'll bet he'd let her stay right in the kitchen keeling pots and making cherry pies, too," she said suddenly.
"Who?"
"Who?" wrathfully. "All the Billies of the world. They can ramble fields and whistle like whip-poor-wills, but we've just got to stay and make cherry pies forever and ever, amen."
"Why, Kit, dear--"
"Don't 'dear' me. I want to get out and tramp and live in a tent. I hate cooking. I don't see why anybody wants to eat this kind of weather. I'd nibble grass first."
"Yes, you would," laughed Helen. "You'll be the first at supper to lean over sweetly and ask for preserves and cake. I see you nibbling grass, Miss Nebuchanezzar."
But Kit had fled, out the back door and over to the pasture where Princess rambled.
"Kit's fretful, isn't she?"