Everybody adopted her suggestion. The four on the grass turned over, lay like stone images carved there. Rosie turned over in the hammock.
“I wish Maida’d come home!” came from her in muffled accents before she, too, subsided.
* * * * * * *
A whole minute passed. Nobody moved. Even Rosie kept rigid.
Into the silence floated the note of a far-away automobile horn. It was not so much a call or warning as a gay carolling, a long level ribbon of sound which unwound itself continuously and, drifting on the soft spring air, came nearer and nearer. It stopped for a moment ... started again ... continued more and more gayly ... ran up and down a trilled scale once more....
The stone images stirred uneasily.
The horn grew louder.... In a moment it would pass Primrose Court.... The horn ended in a high swift call.... The car stopped....
The stone images lifted their heads.
A girl, lithe but strong-looking with wide-apart big gray eyes gleaming in a little face, just touched in the cheek with pink, with masses of feathery golden hair hanging over her blue coat, was stepping out of the car.
The images flashed upright; leaped to their feet.