"It's just like life, Oliver, isn't it?" she said, as
she tightened the coil in her neck. "All we want,
after all, is a place to get into out of the storm and
wet, not a big place, either."

"What kind of a place?" He was on his knees
digging a little trench with his knife, piling up the
moist earth in miniature embankments, so that the
dripping from the roof would not spatter this Princess
of his whom he had saved from the tempest
outside.

"Oh, any kind of a place if you have people you're
fond of. I'd love a real studio somewhere, and a few
things hung about--some old Delft and one or two
bits of stuff--and somebody to take care of me."

Oliver shifted his pipe in his mouth and looked
up. Would she, with all her independence, really
like to have someone take care of her? He had
seen no evidence of it.

"Who?" he asked. He had never heard her
mention anybody's name--but then she had not told
him everything;

He had dropped his eyes again, finishing the drain
and flattening the boughs under her, to make the
seat the easier.