The canoe had veen varnished; the tennis court was in process of preparation. Mrs. Machin grumbled because he took the men from their work to help him with his play. One morning in the latter part of June, she marched over to him, as he was directing the rolling of the lawn by Gunn and Newbigging, and said:
"Them fellas will just have to leave off that foolery to-day, and help get the Indians' shack ready. They've sent word that they'll be here tomorrow, and they'll be mad if they find the roof not mended. They was nearly flooded out before they left last year. Of course, if you don't care, Mr. Vale, what sort of accommodation you give the poor things, it don't matter to me." She folded her arms across her stomach and stared into the lake.
"I didn't know they were coming," said Vale, meekly. "Is that the little house in the orchard?"
"Yes. How did ye s'pose the fruit got picked? The strawberries is tame but they won't hop off the vines into the baskets themselves, I can tell ye. With this hot sun there'll be a pickin' ready in a day or two."
"Very well. I'll let them off in a few minutes." And he persisted for a time in the rolling, while Mrs. Machin stood by, impatient and contemptuous. He would not let her domineer over him before the men, for he had seen them grinning on more than one occasion, when he had been worsted by her.
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