Strelsa, a pink apron pinned about her, a trowel in her gloved hand, stood superintending the transplanting of some purple asters which not very difficult exploit was being attempted by a local yokel acting as her "hired man."
The garden, a big one with a wall fronting the road, ran back all the way to the terrace in the rear of the house beyond which stretched the western veranda.
And it was out on this veranda that Quarren stepped in the wake of Strelsa's maid, and from there he caught his first view of Strelsa's garden, and of Strelsa herself, fully armed and caparisoned for the perennial fray with old Dame Nature.
"You need not go down there to announce me," he said; "I'll speak to Mrs. Leeds myself."
But before he could move, Strelsa, happening to turn around, saw him on the veranda, gazed at him incredulously for a moment, then brandished her trowel with a clear, distant cry of greeting, and came toward him, laughing in her excitement and surprise. They met midway, and she whipped off her glove and gave him her hand in a firm, cool clasp.
"Why the dickens didn't you wire!" she said. "You're a fraud, Rix! I might easily have been away!—You might have missed me—we might have missed each other.... Is that all you care about seeing me?—after all these weeks!"
"I wanted to surprise you," he explained feebly.
"'I wanted to surprise you,' he explained feebly."