“Golly,” Kit exclaimed as the car drove away, “it seems as if every single day something new happens here, and we thought it would be so dull we wouldn’t know what to do with ourselves.”
“You mean Billie’s something new?” asked Doris.
“Doesn’t he sound interesting? I’m going out to ask Buzzy about him.”
“You’d better help me finish these berries, Kathleen,” Jean urged. So Kit gave up the quest temporarily and sat on the edge of the kitchen table, stripping currants from their stems, and singing at the top of her lungs.
“Oh, Kit, do stop,” begged Jean. “It’s too hot to sing.”
Kit looked out at the widespread view of Woodhow, rich with uncut grass billowing with every vagrant breeze like distant waves. It was hot in the kitchen, hot and close. Suddenly Kit fled out the back door and over to the pasture where Princess rambled.
“Kit’s fretful, isn’t she?”
“She thinks she’s getting into a rut,” answered Jean. “We all do. Some days I get so homesick for the kids back home and everything that we haven’t got here—the library and the art museum and the movies and the symphony concerts. I think we ought to write down and ask some of the girls to come up.”
“I don’t. Not until Dad’s well.”
Tommy was out of hearing. Jean looked over at Doris, who in some ways always seemed nearer her own age than Kit.