humble to come to the front door and pay a real call. But over the back fence she gave Kate clumps of larkspur for her garden, and warnings as to how closely you had to watch Mr. Turben, or he'd sell you moldy raspberries and eggs that had been kept too long. Plunkett's was better, but terribly high.
Too high for her, Kate decided, after Joe explained sunnily that "just for the moment" he was rather hard up. But not too hard up for surprises. Joe would never be that.
One day a patent lawn sprinkler that was supposed to twirl about, twisting and weaving its ropes of water, but which never sprinkled for them beyond a few reluctant tears, except for one unforgotten gush as they bent above it. One day five pounds of chocolates and pink and yellow and pale-green bonbons, with candied cherries and violets filling up the cracks, and lace-paper mats, too pretty to throw away, and silver tongs. One day Mr. Minty, from the Lakeside Studio, to take photographs of the studio at 29 Chestnut Street.
Mr. Minty was charmed with everything, especially the carved Italian chair, the kimona embroidered with sea turtles, and the paintbrushes in a ginger jar, all of which he moved into each picture—the one of Kate with palette and painting apron in front of the easel holding Joe's portrait, the one of Kate reading on the denim-covered divan, the one of Kate pouring tea—pouring air, really—before the fireplace.
"Very, very artistic!" Mr. Minty sang, leaping out
