“You take it in, will you? I’m not fit to be seen, after grubbing about in that region of the lost.”
Dandy started, and shook her head violently.
“Nonsense! It’s your cooking. Go in and collect your own credit. If it comes to that, I’m not fit to be seen, either!”
“Don’t fish!” Harriet snarled. “Buck up, I tell you! The stuff’s freezing. I’m not going in, anyway, so if you won’t take it I may as well sling it through the window.”
“But——” Dandy advanced with reluctance. “I don’t like to! It’s your place. You know him so much better than I.”
“That’s just it. He doesn’t want the folks he knows. They know too much. I’d probably be giving him my opinion before he asked it. You walk in as if you were used to it, and he’ll probably think you’re only Our Agnes.”
Dandy took the tray slowly, still doubtful.
“Git!” said Harriet, and knocked. Without waiting for an answer, she opened the door and pushed the girl in, closing it again instantly. Not content with that, she went out into the porch, and shut the inner door behind her. She would not even be within reach of their voices. The damp cold swept in from the west as she stood in the dark, biting her lip. The standard of action is mercifully adjusted to each of us, and perhaps Harriet’s funny, homely, big-little sacrifice formed a fine enough leaf in the laurels of Love.
She had been there barely a couple of minutes before the Watters limousine turned in and drew up at the step. She went forward, expecting to see Hamer, but instead, out of it came Wiggie. He came carefully, with the chauffeur’s hand under his arm, a wavering shadow uncertain of its feet, but yet he came, smiling a ghost of his old smile at Harriet’s amazement and concern. The chauffeur planted him safely within reach of her assistance, and returned to his car.
“Hamer’s a little way behind,” the new-comer explained breathlessly. “We met a certain Mr. Dennison going home from Bluecaster, and Hamer wanted to ask him things, so I came on.”