"What did you do?" She might have said, "Please let me alone. Let's be quiet." But Paul would be worried, hurt; he would not understand; he would ask questions. She turned a bright face to him.
"Oh, your mother and I went down town, and then we came home, and Mrs. Lamson came in."
"She's a fine little woman, Mrs. Lamson."
"Yes? Oh, I suppose so. I don't care much for her."
"You will. You'll like her when you know her better." The definiteness of his tone left her no reply. She felt that it was proper to like Mrs. Lamson, that he expected her to like Mrs. Lamson, that she must like Mrs. Lamson. A flash of foolish, little-girl anger rose in her; she would have liked to stamp her foot and howl that she would not like Mrs. Lamson. The absurdity of it made her smile.
"What are you smiling at, dear?"
She sat up, setting the hammock swinging.
"Oh, I don't know. Let's go somewhere," she said restlessly. "Let's take a long walk."
"All right." He was eager to please her. "I'll tell you something better than that I'll get the car, and we'll ride down to Merced and get a sundae. Run put on your coat. You'll need it, with that thin dress."
His pride in the new car was deep and boyish. It was quite the most costly, luxurious car in town; it was at once the symbol of his commanding place in the community, and a toy to be endlessly examined and discussed. She would not think of telling him that at the moment she would rather walk than ride in it. Like an obedient child she went for her coat.