"Well," said Mrs. Fox, firmly, as if the name clenched the matter, "it must be STOPPED, that's all! Sally Mix! I hope she's WHITE!"
II
Just a week later, in Palo Alto, California, Anthony Fox slammed the gate of Miss Mix's garden loudly behind him, and eyed the Mix homestead with disapproval. The house was square and white, with doors and windows open to spring sunlight and air, and was surrounded by a garden space of flowers and trees and trim brick walks. The click of the gate brought a maid to the doorway.
"Mr. Fox won't be here until noon," said the maid, in answer to his question.
"Does Miss—could I see Miss Mix?" substituted Anthony, after a moment's thought.
He took a porch chair while she departed to find out.
"If you please," said the maid, suddenly reappearing, "Miss Mix is setting a Plymouth, and will you step right down?"
"Setting a—" scowled Anthony.
"Plymouth," supplied the maid, mildly.
Anthony eyed her suspiciously, but there was evidently nothing concealed behind her innocence of manner. Finally he followed the path she indicated as leading to Miss Mix. He followed it past the house, past clothes drying on lines, past scattered apple trees with whitewashed trunks, and down a board walk to the chicken yard.