She could put the best of her brain, the skill of her fingers, the creative impulse of her heart, into it.
She was almost sure that she had found a friend.

She had a feeling that when the coming Saturday had been lived Donald Whiting would be her friend.

He would want her advice and her help in his work.

She would want his companionship and the stimulus of his mind, in hers.

What Linda had craved was a dear friend among the girls, but no girl had offered her friendship.