Laurel noticed that she was dressed in an ordinary white skirt and outing waist, and wore tennis shoes. She was at the door of the car when it stopped, and, before Laurel’s father had a chance to open it, she had stretched out her arm in front of him—ignoring him completely—grasped one of Laurel’s hands, and was saying in the lovely voice Laurel remembered, “Hello, Laurel.” She said “Laurel,” not “Laurrul”—like most people. Her voice was like a bell. “I’m ever so glad to see you. I’ve been waiting and waiting for you. Get out, Dear. Let her out, Stephen.” She hadn’t paid any attention to Stephen till then. “Your trunk has come,” she said, still addressing Laurel, still ignoring her father—or almost, for she flung him only the briefest little “hello,” as he stepped out of the automobile beside her—“and for the last hour I’ve been thinking you yourself were coming every time I heard a horn blowing outside our drive.”

As Laurel stepped off the running-board, Mrs. Morrison put her arm around her and kissed her lightly on the cheek. Afterward she left her arm there in a casual sort of way as if she forgot to remove it.

“Let’s come into the house this way,” she suggested, and gently drew Laurel across the lawn toward the French windows. “I’ve tea and cakes all ready,” she said in a low tone, as if it was a confidence not meant for Stephen’s ears. “And cinnamon toast.” She gave Laurel’s shoulders the tiniest little bit of a squeeze.

Arm in arm with Mrs. Morrison, Laurel stepped across the low threshold of the French window into a big, generous, library-sort of room, with a grand piano at one end, and books all around the dark walls.

It was as easy as that, getting into the house, and all of the way down Laurel had been making herself miserable wondering just how it would be accomplished—whether there would be a butler as in most movies, to answer the bell, or a maid; and if the butler or the maid took your suitcase, like bellboys in hotels, or if you just held onto it yourself. Laurel’s father had told her that he must run directly back to New York, after leaving her at Mrs. Morrison’s, to catch his train. She had supposed that he had meant he couldn’t even see her across the threshold. But no. He followed her into the big room, carrying her suitcase himself, and showed no sign of hurrying away.

There was an Irish setter in the room, lying down by a big chair as Laurel entered it with Mrs. Morrison.

“This is Laurel, Michael,” called out Mrs. Morrison to the dog. “Come and tell her how glad we are to see her.”