"Maybe you—won't. May-be you—won't. Mebbe youwon't. Mebbeyouwon't."
She let herself into Dr. Mary's empty apartment, and then telephoned Martha that she had to work late. In the morning it would be different, but to-night she could not describe the meeting, and Martha was always interested in every detail.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
It was a few minutes before seven when the maid showed Jean into the Allen living-room. A little girl rose from a hassock and stood looking at her quietly. Then she came forward and held out her hand.
"My mamma's not home yet, but I'm Puck."
Jean took the mite of a hand in hers. "And I am Mrs. Herrick."
"I know. I'm going to entertain you. Won't you sit down?" The brown of Gregory's eyes was softened to hazel in Puck's, but the spirit in them was his. "That's the nicest chair. My daddy likes it best." The tone was a childish treble of Margaret's, but the decision with which she pointed out that particular chair was the same with which Gregory in the end had always won over hers or Mary's suggestions. A lump rose in Jean's throat.
"Stop it," she whispered fiercely to herself. "You're in it now. You've got to see it through."
Puck had returned to the hassock, where she sat with her brows drawn, looking for a foothold in this, her first social struggle. As one grown woman to another Jean smiled and said:
"I think it's going to snow, don't you?"