days later, and the
other window is blocked off similar. Also I get a bill from the florist
for two bushels of dirt.

Well, our front windows did look kind of odd, and our view out was
pretty well barred off; but he had painted the things up neat, and he
did all his waterin' and fussin' around early in the mornin', so we let
it ride. When he starts in to use our bedroom windows the same way,
though, I has to call him off.

"See here, Professor," says I, "you ain't mistakin' this studio
apartment for a New Jersey truck-farm, are you! Besides, we have to keep
them windows open at night, and your green stuff is apt to get nipped."

"Oh, but the night air is bad to breathe, Monsieur," says he.

"Not for us," says I. "Anyway, we're used to it, so I guess you'll have
to lay off this bedroom garden business."

He takes away the boxes, but it's plain he's disappointed. I believe if
I'd let him gone on he'd had cabbages growin' on the mantelpiece, a
lettuce bed on the readin'-table, and maybe a potato patch on the
fire-escape. I never knew gardenin' could be made such an indoor sport.

"Poor chap!" says Vee. "He has been telling me what wonderful things he
used to raise when he lived in Peronne. Isn't there some way, Torchy,
that we could give him more room?"

"We might rent the roof and glass it in for him," I suggests, "or get a
permit to bridge over the street."

"Silly!" says she, rumplin' my red hair reckless.

That was about the time we was havin' some of that delayed winter
weather, and it was touchin' to see Professor Battou nurse along them
pale green shoots that he'd coaxed up in his window-boxes. Then it runs
off warm and sunny again, just as we gets this week-end invite from Mr.
Robert.

Course, I'd been out to his Long Island place before, but somehow I
hadn't got excited over it. This time it's different. Vee was goin'
along, for one thing. And I expect the fact that spring had come
bouncin' in on us after a hard winter had something to do with our
enthusiasm for gettin' out of town. You know how it is. For eleven
months you're absolutely sure the city's the only place to live in, and
you feel sorry for them near-Rubes who have to catch trains to get home.
And then, all of a sudden, about this time of year, you get that
restless feelin', and wonder what it is ails you. I think it struck Vee
harder than it did me.

"Goody!" says she, when I tell her we're expected to go out Saturday
noon and stay over