The dog got up, stretched, and wagged his tail languidly, then, with a sudden brightening of expression and a sudden tightening of muscles, he barked twice, and shoved past Mrs. Morrison and Laurel toward Stephen, making joyous little whining sounds as he fell to lavishing damp dog-kisses on the hand that held Laurel’s suitcase.

“There’s no doubt about how glad he is to see your father, is there?” laughed Mrs. Morrison. “Michael adores your father, Laurel, as we all do around here,” she added carelessly. “Come, we’ll run upstairs, and wash our hands. Give me the suitcase, Stephen.”

“Laurel will take the suitcase,” said Stephen. “It’s not heavy.”

“Yes, I’ll take it,” said Laurel.

“All right. Come along. And, oh, Stephen,” Mrs. Morrison called back over her shoulder, in that sort of singing voice of hers, “just light the hot water, will you please?”

There was a tea-table, with a white cloth near one of the windows, with shining silver on it, and shining tea-cups and a plate or two of snowy sandwiches and a basket of frosted cakes. “We’ll be down in a minute.”

2

UPSTAIRS, INSIDE THE most exquisite little bathroom Laurel had ever stepped foot in—creamy tiles clear to the ceiling, creamy floor, creamy fittings, not a scrap of nickel in sight, everything all smooth shining porcelain, like the inside of a beautiful china cup, Laurel thought—Mrs. Morrison said, “Here’s the washcloth, and here’s the soap, and here’s the towel. Use them, and then come into this room. It’s mine. I’m going to have you in with me. And take off your things. Put them on the bed next to the wall—your bed—then come downstairs. And don’t be long. I’ll hurry down ahead and get your father started on his tea. He’s got to go right back to town.” And she left Laurel.

Very carefully Laurel followed her directions, gazing wonderingly about her as she did so, examining various details with investigating nose and fingertips; sniffing the soap; ever so cautiously opening the door of the medicine chest; touching with a gentle forefinger the silk window-hangings in the bedroom; touching with the same gentle forefinger its ivory-colored walls; the shade on the lamp on the table between the beds. It was made of real filet! So, too, were the curious little pillows like that on the beds. (Laurel had never seen tiny pillows like that on grown-up beds.) So, too, was the bureau-scarf, and the tidy on the back of the big winged-chair by the window. All real filet! And just the simplest little piece of filet cost six-fifty in the neckwear department!