'You ARE a dear.'
Saxon saw the pleased flush in the other's face, which lingered as she went on.
'But still, I may be peculiarly qualified to live and succeed in the country. As you say yourself, you've spent your life in the city. You don't know the first thing about the country. It might even break your heart.'
Saxon's mind went back to the terrible months in the Pine street cottage.
'I know already that the city will break my heart. Maybe the country will, too, but just the same it's my only chance, don't you see. It's that or nothing. Besides, our folks before us were all of the country. It seems the more natural way. And better, here I am, which proves that 'way down inside I must want the country, must, as you call it, be peculiarly qualified for the country, or else I wouldn't be here.'
The other nodded approval, and looked at her with growing interest.
'That young man-' she began.
'Is my husband. He was a teamster until the big strike came. My name is Roberts, Saxon Roberts, and my husband is William Roberts.'
'And I am Mrs. Mortimer,' the other said, with a bow of acknowledgment. 'I am a widow. And now, if you will ask your husband in, I shall try to answer some of your many questions. Tell him to put the bundles inside the gate…… And now what are all the questions you are filled with?'
'Oh, all kinds. How does it pay? How did you manage it all? How much did the land cost? Did you build that beautiful house? How much do you pay the men? How did you learn all the different kinds of things, and which grew best and which paid best? What is the best way to sell them? How do you sell them?' Saxon paused and laughed. 'Oh, I haven't begun yet. Why do you have flowers on the borders everywhere? I looked over the Portuguese farms around San Leandro, but they never mixed flowers and vegetables.'
Mrs. Mortimer held up her hand. 'Let me answer the last first. It is the key to almost everything.'
But Billy arrived, and the explanation was deferred until after his introduction.
'The flowers caught your eyes, didn't they, my dear?' Mrs. Mortimer resumed. 'And brought you in through my gate and right up to me. And that's the very reason they were planted with the vegetables-to catch eyes. You can't imagine how many eyes they have caught, nor how many owners of eyes they have lured inside my gate. This is a good road, and is a very popular short country drive for townsfolk. Oh, no; I've never had any luck with automobiles. They can't see anything for dust. But I began when nearly everybody still used carriages. The townswomen would drive by. My flowers, and then my place, would catch their eyes. They would tell their drivers to stop. And-well, somehow, I managed to be in the front within speaking distance. Usually I succeeded in inviting them in to see my flowers… and vegetables, of course. Everything was sweet, clean, pretty. It all appealed. And-' Mrs. Mortimer shrugged her shoulders. 'It is well known that the stomach sees through the eyes. The thought of vegetables growing among flowers pleased their fancy. They wanted my vegetables. They must have them. And they did, at double the market price, which they were only too glad to pay. You see, I became the fashion, or a fad, in a small way. Nobody lost. The vegetables were certainly good, as good as any on the market and often fresher. And, besides, my customers killed two birds with one stone; for they were pleased with themselves for philanthropic reasons. Not only did they obtain the finest and freshest possible vegetables, but at the same time they were happy with the knowledge that they were helping a deserving widow-woman. Yes, and it gave a certain tone to their establishments to be able to say they bought Mrs. Mortimer's vegetables. But that's too big a side to go into. In short, my little place became a show place-anywhere to go, for a drive or anything, you know, when time has to be killed. And it became noised about who I was, and who my husband had been, what I had been. Some of the townsladies I had known personally in the old days. They actually worked for my success. And then, too, I used to serve tea. My patrons became my guests for the time being. I still serve it, when they drive out to show me off to their friends. So you see, the flowers are one of the ways I succeeded.'
Saxon was glowing with appreciation, but Mrs. Mortimer, glancing at Billy, noted not entire approval. His blue eyes were clouded.
'Well, out with it,' she encouraged. 'What are you thinking?'
To Saxon's surprise, he answered directly, and to her double surprise, his criticism was of a nature which had never entered her head.
'It's just a trick,' Billy expounded. 'That's what I was gettin' at-'
'But a paying trick,' Mrs. Mortimer interrupted, her eyes dancing and vivacious behind the glasses.
'Yes, and no,' Billy said stubbornly, speaking in his slow, deliberate fashion. 'If every farmer was to mix flowers an' vegetables, then every farmer would get double the market price, an' then there wouldn't be any double market price. Everything'd be as it was before.'
'You are opposing a theory to a fact,' Mrs. Mortimer stated. 'The fact is that all the farmers do not do it. The fact is that I do receive double the price. You can't get away from that.'
Billy was unconvinced, though unable to reply.
'Just the same,' he muttered, with a slow shake of the head, 'I don't get the hang of it. There's something wrong so far as we're concerned-my wife an' me, I mean. Maybe I'll get hold of it after a while.'
'And in the meantime, we'll look around,' Mrs. Mortimer invited. 'I want to show you everything, and tell you how I make it go. Afterward, we'll sit down, and I'll tell you about the beginning. You see-' she bent her gaze on Saxon-'I want you thoroughly to understand that you can succeed in the country if you go about it right. I didn't know a thing about it when I began, and I didn't have a fine big man like yours. I was all alone. But I'll tell you about that.'
For the next hour, among vegetables, berry-bushes and fruit trees, Saxon stored her brain with a huge mass of information to be digested at her leisure. Billy, too, was interested, but he left the talking to Saxon, himself rarely asking a question. At the rear of the bungalow, where everything was as clean and orderly as the front, they were shown through the chicken yard. Here, in different runs, were kept several hundred small and snow-white hens.
'White Leghorns,' said Mrs. Mortimer. 'You have no idea what they netted me this year. I never keep a hen a moment past the prime of her laying period-'
'Just what I was tellin' you, Saxon, about horses,' Billy broke in.
'And by the simplest method of hatching them at the right time, which not one farmer in ten thousand ever dreams of doing, I have them laying in the winter when most hens stop laying and when eggs are highest. Another thing: I have my special customers. They pay me ten cents a dozen more than the market price, because my specialty is one-day eggs.'
Here she chanced to glance at Billy, and guessed that he was still wrestling with his problem.
'Same old thing?' she queried.
He nodded. 'Same old thing. If every farmer delivered day-old eggs, there wouldn't be no ten cents higher 'n the top price. They'd be no better off than they was before.'
'But the eggs would be one-day eggs, all the eggs would be one-day eggs, you mustn't forget that,' Mrs. Mortimer pointed out.
'But that don't butter no toast for my wife an' me,' he objected. 'An' that's what I've been tryin' to get the hang of, an' now I got it. You talk about theory an' fact. Ten cents higher than top price is a theory to Saxon an' me. The fact is, we ain't got no eggs, no chickens, an' no land for the chickens to run an' lay eggs on.'
Their hostess nodded sympathetically.
'An' there's something else about this outfit of yourn that I don't get the hang of,' he pursued. 'I can't just put my finger on it, but it's there all right.'
They were shown over the cattery, the piggery, the milkers, and the kennelry, as Mrs. Mortimer called her live stock departments. None was large. All were moneymakers, she assured them, and rattled off her profits glibly. She took their breaths away by the prices given and received for pedigreed Persians, pedigreed Ohio Improved Chesters, pedigreed Scotch collies, and pedigreed Jerseys. For the milk of the last she also had a special private market, receiving five cents more a quart than was fetched by the best dairy milk. Billy was quick to point out the difference between the look of her orchard and the look of the orchard they had inspected the previous afternoon, and Mrs. Mortimer showed him scores of other differences, many of which he was compelled to accept on faith.
Then she told them of another industry, her home-made jams and jellies, always contracted for in advance, and at prices dizzyingly beyond the regular market. They sat in comfortable rattan chairs on the veranda, while she told the story of how she had drummed up the jam and jelly trade, dealing only with the one best restaurant and
