For a long time Linda sat with poised pencil, studying her foreground.

What should she introduce that would be most typical of the location and gave her the desired splash of contrasting color that she used as a distinctive touch in the foreground of all her drawings?
Her pencil flew busily a few minutes while she sketched in a flatly growing bush of prickly phlox, setting the flower faces as closely as the overlapped scales of a fish, setting them even as they grow in nature; and when she resorted to the color box she painted these faces a wonderful pink that was not wild rose, not cerise, not lilac, but it made one think of all of them.

When she could make no further improvement on this sketch, she carefully stretched it against the wall and tacked it up to dry.
Afterward she cleared her mental decks of all the work she could think of in order to have Saturday free, because Saturday was the day upon which she found herself planning in the back of her mind throughout the strenuous week, to save for riding the King's Highway with Donald Whiting.

Several times she had met him on the walks or in the hallways, and always he had stopped to speak with her and several times he had referred to the high hope in which he waited for Saturday.

Linda already had held a consultation with Katy on the subject of the lunch basket.
That matter being satisfactorily arranged, there was nothing for her to do but to double on her work so that Saturday would be free.