“There’s your work, Peter,” I said, pointing.
Peter looked rueful, but said nothing.
That evening I tried to work, but found it difficult, for watching my wife sew.
“You’ve no technique,” I laughed.
She made a little moue at me, and went on hemming the curtains, getting up now and then to measure them. “Why should I have?” she said presently. “You knew I was a Ph. D. when you married me. These curtains be on your own head! I’m doing the best I can.”
There was suddenly the suspicion of moisture in her eyes, and I ran to comfort her.
“I–I so want to make Twin Fires lovely,” she added, pricking her finger. “Oh, tell me I can, if I am only a highbrow!”
Of course the finger had to be kissed, and she had to be kissed, and the hem had to be inspected and praised, and now, long, long afterward, I smile to think how alike we all of us are on a honeymoon.
It was the next morning that we resolved to begin the pool. “I don’t expect to be married again for several years,” said I, “and so I’m going to take a holiday this week. We’ll carry the vegetables to market and bring back the cement, and begin on our water garden.”
Mike loaded the wagon with peas, the last of the rhubarb, and ten quarts of currants picked by Peter, and off we started.