Virginia regarded her guest with great seriousness. “I come to your house very often, Hennie. I was over the other day, but,”–she gave another sigh,–“you were not home.”
“I do remember. Carrie told me that you were over with Serena. I supposed that you came to see her. I am on so many committees for various charitable organizations––” She stopped short and reaching over patted the girl’s hand. “I am sorry that I was not home, dear. I should remember that you are rather old to call upon my negro cook.”
Virginia’s eyes danced. “I must have called upon Carrie a thousand times since I was a baby. A few more calls in your kitchen instead of your parlor won’t hurt me.”
“Why are you laughing?” demanded Mrs. Henderson.
“I can tell you a secret about your own house but you must agree not to use it against Carrie.”
“I promise.”
“Well, Hennie, you might be interested to know that refreshments are served oftener in your kitchen than your parlor. I learned that years ago.”
“The very idea!” exclaimed the caller.
The girl’s gaze wandered thoughtfully over the beautiful grounds. “I do so love to have you here. I don’t see very many people.” Her voice was wistful. “This big place gets lonesome sometimes. I think I envy girls who live in houses with stoops on the sidewalk. They have the cars, peddlers, policemen and lots of people going by all of the time. It would be great fun to live that way.” She was very sober now. “I think that I want noises and lots of things going on. Am I very strange, Hennie?”
“No indeed, all young people are that way,” declared Mrs. Henderson with emphasis. “I felt so myself, once. Of course, it is lonely for you in this big house with only Serena. Your father is home for so short a time each day.”