The guests were invited for half-past six, but had been hospitably urged by Bettie to appear sooner if they wished. At exactly fifteen minutes after six, Mrs. Crane, in her old-fashioned, threadbare, best black silk and a very-much-mended real-lace collar, and with her iron-gray hair far more elaborately arranged than she usually wore it, crossed the street, lifting her skirts high and stepping gingerly to avoid the dust. She supposed that she was to be the only guest, for the girls had not mentioned any other.
Mabel, prodigiously formal and most unusually solemn, met her at the door, ushered her into the blue room, and invited her to remove her wraps. The light shawl that Mrs. Crane had worn over her head was the only wrap she had, but it was not so easily removed as it might have been. It caught on one of her hair pins, which necessitated rearranging several locks of hair that had slipped from place. This took some time and, while she was thus occupied, Mr. Black turned the corner, went swiftly toward the cottage, mounted the steps, and rang the doorbell.
Mabel received him with even greater solemnity than she had Mrs. Crane.
"I think I'd better take your hat," said she. "We haven't any hat rack, but it'll be perfectly safe on the pink-room bed because we haven't any Tucker babies taking naps on it today."
Mr. Black handed his hat to her with an elaborate politeness that equaled her own.
"Marjory!" she whispered as she went through the dining-room. "He's wearing his dress suit!"
"Sh! he'll hear you," warned Marjory.
"Well, anyway, I'm frightened half to death. Oh, would you mind passing all the wettest things? I hadn't thought about his clothes."
"Yes, I guess I'd better; he might want to wear 'em again."
"They're both here," announced Mabel, opening the kitchen door.