"Miss Blythe had carried to her father a large bucket of lettuce leaves."
After Miss Blythe had carried to her father a large bucket of lettuce leaves, she returned to the veranda of the bungalow.
A delightful luncheon awaited us; I seated her, then took the chair opposite.
A delicious omelette, fresh biscuit, salad, and strawberry preserves, and a tall tumbler of iced tea imbued me with a sort of mild exhilaration.
Out of the corner of my eye I could see Blythe down in the garden, munching his lettuce leaves like an ill-tempered rabbit, and daubing away at his picture while he munched.
"Your father," said I politely, "is something of a genius."
"I am so glad you think so," she said gratefully. "But don't tell him so. He has been surfeited with praise in Boston. That is why we came out here."