“Asparagus,” she ordered first. Then, “But where is it? Is that it!”
“You dig for it, idiot,” said Dirk, stooping, and taking from his basket the queerly curved sharp knife or spud used for cutting the asparagus shoots. “Cut the shoots three or four inches below the surface.”
“Oh, let me do it!” She was down on her silken knees in the dirt, ruined a goodly patch of the fine tender shoots, gave it up and sat watching Dirk’s expert manipulation of the knife. “Let’s have radishes, and corn, and tomatoes and lettuce and peas and artichokes and”
“Artichokes grow in California, not Illinois.” He was more than usually uncommunicative, and noticeably moody.
Paula remarked it. “Why the Othello brow?”
“You didn’t mean that rot, did you? about marrying a rich man.”
“Of course I meant it. What other sort of man do you think I ought to marry?” He looked at her, silently. She smiled. “Yes, wouldn’t I make an ideal bride for a farmer!”
“I’m not a farmer.”
“Well, architect then. Your job as draughts-man at Hollis & Sprague’s must pay you all of twenty-five a week.”
“Thirty-five,” said Dirk, grimly. “What's that got to do with it!”
“Not a thing, darling.” She stuck out one foot. “These slippers cost thirty.”
