"The only dreadful part," said Amy, reassuring the distressed Hildegarde, "is that you've exchanged a perfectly gorgeous dinner for a pick-up supper."
"But what must Miss—Miss Zall think of me?"
"She must know there's some mistake. Probably they're not waiting dinner any longer, for it's after eight o'clock."
"O," groaned Hildegarde, "I never was so mortified. What am I going to do?"
"It seems to me you'd better finish your supper, such as it is," suggested Amy. "And then you can call up Avery Zall and explain your mistake. She'll see that the names sound alike over the phone. And after that there'll be plenty of time to see your friends."
"Seems to me," suggested Bob, "that as long as we've started the evening here, we might as well put it through."
His eyes met Amy's with a twinkle that was like a spark to tinder. Amy struggled for a moment, then gave way to peals of laughter.
"O," she gasped, when at length she could find her voice, "What must you have thought of me, inviting you to dinner and then coming down in this old, faded gingham."
"And what must you have thought of me," Hildegarde cried, "coming at such an hour and calmly taking off my hat."
"The dust was thick over everything," giggled Amy. "I've been sewing every minute all day long, and I warned father to expect a light meal."