“Good-by, Margie—dear!” he called after her.
She had gone into the bungalow next to them, slamming the screen door behind her.
“How—sweet!” Mrs. De Haaven declared. “How dear and young, Rose!”
“I’ll give her a chance to get settled first, before I go and ask her,” said Rose. “It’s too sordid to ask her how to light a stove when she’s just said good-by to Paul.”
So they waited a little. Their neighbor was extraordinarily noisy in there; doors banged, all sorts of things rattled and slammed, and while they waited for this alarming racket to subside, a small open car came down the road behind the houses, stopped, and presently the back door slammed and a voice sounded in there—a man’s voice, and a young one, too.
“Look alive with that dinner, Margie! I’m in a hurry!”
“The things haven’t come down from the store yet,” said Margie. “I ordered them—”
“Don’t make excuses,” the man interrupted. “I told you I’d be home at six, and that I’d be in a hurry.”
“Oh, I’m not making excuses!” answered Margie, scornfully. “I wouldn’t bother to do that to you. I was just explaining. It’s not my fault if the man doesn’t bring the things.”
“We’ve got their things!” Rose whispered to her sister. “I know it!”