Dick led Merle down a glade of the forest, but before doing so he had unstrapped the roll of drawings from the horn of his saddle.
“What are you carrying so very carefully?” asked Merle.
“My plans for the ideal city. I told you I was going to have a try in that competition.”
“I hope you’ll have good luck.”
“Well, I want you to help me. Will you take this package, please, to Chester Munson and ask him to send it to the proper address?”
“With the greatest of pleasure, Mr. Willoughby,”—and she put forth her hands for the roll.
“No—we’ll lay it down here for the present. This log will serve as a seat. See, this twisted, limb makes quite a comfortable nook for you.” He had halted at a fallen tree, had dropped the drawing on the turf, and was now dusting away the twigs and leaves from the seat he had chosen.
“Cannot I look at the drawings?” she asked, after settling herself cosily.
“Before handing them to Munson, if you like. But there are other things to talk about now.” As he spoke he tossed his hat on the ground at her feet.
“Are you growing impatient over your confinement?” she asked.