She reached for her pen, but her husband stretched out a detaining hand. “Why not run down to the farm and learn all about it--in the interest of economy?” “Because it would not be economical. It costs money to ride one hundred miles on the Long Island railroad.” “I wasn’t thinking of a railway trip. We might go by motor. Burrows, our company lawyer, left for San Francisco Tuesday, and he told me that if I would like to use his car some Sunday or week-end, to telephone his chauffeur, who’d probably be joy-riding, if I didn’t.” “Oh, Larry, a real motor! Just as if it was our own?” Claire felt a little pang of regret as she studied Mrs. Larry’s radiant face. How much this friend had done for her, yet she could not place the family car at her disposal. It was rarely used for such unselfish purposes, but must be always at the command of her mother and sisters for calls, shopping and the briefest errands. She suddenly realized that Mrs. Larry was addressing her personally. “Think of it, Claire--a whole perfect day in the country, with everything coming out of the soft brown earth to find the sunlight. It may not mean so much to you, for _all_ your friends have machines. But you’ll go with us--because the trip may prove profitable. And I’ll take the babies, and, yes, Lena--she has been so faithful, and--is it a seven-passenger car, Larry?” “It is, but it won’t hold the entire block.” “No-o--only Teresa Moore.” “Teresa goes. This is your party!” So it happened that the next Sunday morning Mrs. Larry, with eyes shining, carried her “thrift party” off on the most delightful excursion so far undertaken. Even the Burrows’ chauffeur relaxed at sight of her happiness and enthusiasm, and forgave the early start, for at eight-thirty they were spinning over Queensboro Bridge. Behind them lay the city, for the most part asleep, as New York generally is after its Saturday night gaieties. “We early birds will have the famous Merrick Road practically to ourselves,” said Mr. Larry, as they swept through Astoria. On they went, now through little towns, now past stately homes, now between rolling truck farms, green with corn, gray-blue with cabbage, spattered with the scarlet of tomatoes. It seemed as if all Long Island was yielding a bountiful store of fresh things, enough to feed three cities like New York. “And yet,” sighed Teresa Moore, “we pay absurdly high prices for vegetables, which, though raised within an hour’s motor run of our doors, reach us withered and pithy.” “Well, we’ll know why very soon,” said Mrs. Larry. Then she turned to her husband. “Who did you say owns this farm?”