"More," he smiled. "It is the inn that has made Belgian hare famous."
She laughed softly, and he speeded the car.
"I took Mrs. Puddicombe up there one day, and she has raved about it ever since. The house itself is very old, with little windows and a gambrel roof, and a well-sweep in the rear. They say, half of the garret is given over to the squirrels."
"What a delightful place! I shall love it, I know!" Inwardly, however, she amended, "Maybe I shan't!" thinking of Mrs. Puddicombe.
But once seated at the quaint little table, in the old high-backed chair, eating what tasted better than the best chicken that ever went into an oven, Juanita Sterling forgot Mrs. Puddicombe and her daughter Blanche, and smiled upon everything.
"I am having more dinners to-day than my share," she observed over the pumpkin pie and cheese. "We have ours at twelve, you know."
"What did you have?"
"Codfish balls and pickles and stale bread and butter."
"No dessert?"
"No," she laughed; "that was cut out months ago."