Page:Cather--One of ours.djvu/198

184 expected it of Enid. His heart beat hard when he realized how far she confided in him, how little she was afraid of him! She would let him linger there, standing over her and looking down at her quick fingers, or sitting on the ground at her feet, gazing at the muslin pinned to her knee, until his own sense of propriety told him to get about his work and spare the feelings of the painters.

“When are you going over to the timber claim with me?” he asked, dropping on the ground beside her one warm, windy afternoon. Enid was sitting on the porch floor, her back against a pillar, and her feet on one of those round mats of pursley that grow over hard-beaten earth. “I’ve found my flock of quail again. They live in the deep grass, over by a ditch that holds water most of the year. I’m going to plant a few rows of peas in there, so they’ll have a feeding ground at home. I consider Leonard’s cornfield a great danger. I don’t know whether to take him into my confidence or not.”

“You’ve told Ernest Havel, I suppose?”

“Oh, yes!” Claude replied, trying not to be aware of the little note of acrimony in her voice. “He’s perfectly safe. That place is a paradise for birds. The trees are full of nests. You can stand over there in the morning and hear the young robins squawking for their breakfast. Come up early tomorrow morning and go over with me, won’t you? But wear heavy shoes; it’s wet in the long grass.”

While they were talking a sudden whirlwind swept round the corner of the house, caught up the little mound of folded lace corset-covers and strewed them over the dusty yard. Claude ran after them with Enid’s flowered workbag and thrust them into it as he came upon one after another, fluttering in the weeds. When he returned, Enid had folded her needle-