There came a light knock at the front door.
“It can't be anybody yet, surely,” exclaimed my father in alarm, making for his coat.
“It's Barbara, I expect,” explained my mother. “She promised to come round and help me dress. But now, of course, I shan't want her.” My mother's nature was pessimistic.
But with the words Barbara ran into the room, for I had taken it upon myself to admit her, knowing that shadows slipped out through the window when Barbara came in at the door—in those days, I mean.
She kissed them all three, though it seemed but one movement, she was so quick. And at once they saw the humour of the thing.
“There's going to be no dinner,” laughed my father. “We are going to look surprised and pretend that it was yesterday. It will be fun to see their faces.”
“There will be a very nice dinner,” smiled my mother, “but it will be in the kitchen, and there's no way of getting it upstairs.” And they explained to her the situation.
She stood for an instant, her sweet face the gravest in the group. Then a light broke upon it.
“I'll get you someone,” she said.
“My dear, you don't even know the neighbourhood,” began my mother. But Barbara had snatched the latchkey from its nail and was gone.