Encouraging herself with this reflection, Amy bathed her burning cheeks, combed her hair hastily, and slipped into a little gingham gown which, if somewhat faded and passée, had at least the merit of being fresh and clean. It buttoned in the back, and by virtue of much twisting and stretching Amy finally succeeded in securing the middle button which for a time had defied her efforts. And just as she did so, the door-bell rang.
"'COME RIGHT IN,' SAID AMY WITH A MISLEADING AIR OF CORDIALITY"
Amy went placidly downstairs. She had no apprehensions about the door-bell. She took it for granted that it was somebody to collect for the newspaper, or an old-clothes man, or else a friend so intimate that she could ask her into the kitchen while she made her supper preparations. As she reached the door she realized her mistake. Of the two young people waiting admission she had met the sister several times. The brother she knew merely by sight, for the family had moved into the neighborhood only recently.
For a moment Amy's mood was one of unqualified dismay. She wanted to turn and run. With lightning-like rapidity she compared her faded gingham with the stylish frock setting off the girlish, graceful figure of Hildegarde Carey. And Hildegarde's brother, Robert, if looking a trifle bored, was immaculately attired. Amy recollected that in her absorption with the blue taffeta she had neglected to dust the living room that morning.
Amy opened the door with a smile that poorly concealed her anguish of spirit. Her flickering hope that Hildegarde had made a mistake in the number was dissipated by the composure of Hildegarde's greeting. The two young people entered, as Amy realized, without waiting to be asked, and in the hall Hildegarde performed the ceremony of introduction.
"Come right in," said Amy with a misleading air of cordiality. She wondered if she had better apologize for the undusted living room, but decided against it. Perhaps they would overlook it, though Robert Carey impressed her as one who would notice the least little thing out of the way. Amy decided that the young fellow's handsome face was almost spoiled by its discontented expression.
Another shock came when she said to Hildegarde, "Let me take your coat." She expected Hildegarde to reply that the coat was light and that she did not mind it for the few minutes she had to stay; but on the contrary she not only removed her coat, but slipped off her gloves, unpinned her hat, and added it to the collection Amy carried into the hall with a growing sense of stupefaction. "Any one would think," she told herself, "that she was an old friend come to spend the day."
Perhaps Amy's perplexity partly explained the fact that the next half hour dragged. Amy was not her usual entertaining self. She thought of the dust showing gray against the shining mahogany of the piano. She thought of her faded gingham. She heard herself talking stupidly, unnaturally, and chiefly about the weather. Robert Carey looked more bored than ever.
At half past six her father came in. He glanced at the group in the living room as he entered, and Amy hastily summoned him. Her guests must realize that when the man of the house came home it was time to leave. Amy introduced her father, pulled out an arm chair invitingly, and Mr. Lassell seated himself. It was from him that his daughter had inherited her sense of humor, and on this occasion he made himself much more entertaining than Amy had done. The conversation became almost animated.