"Honeysuckle days!" Brian called his days of convalescence, for the vine upon the porch hung full.
"Is it so hot in the pines?" he wondered one sultry afternoon.
"No," said Joan. "There it's always dark and cool and quiet. When you can walk, Brian, you must see the cabin."
Heat quivered visibly in the valley. A faint breeze frolicked now and then upon the ridge, fluttering the honeysuckle and the pages of an open book upon the table.
"I'm glad it isn't," said Brian in relief. "Somehow I can't imagine Kenny off there in a hot cabin striding up and down and grilling Don. He's so—so combustible. As a matter of fact," he added, "I can't imagine him in any sort of cabin grilling Don. Soft-hearted lunatic!"
"Don gets awfully on his nerves," said Joan, shaking her head. "If it wasn't that he's doing it for you—"
"For me, Joan!"
Joan nodded.
"What you began, he'll finish for you. He said so. It bothered him that all those dreary months you spent at the quarry just to help Don might be in vain. Don went so dreadfully to pieces."
"Sentimental old hothead," grumbled Brian, touched and pleased. "I love him for it."