This afternoon the little house showed more plainly. Many of the leaves were frosted and fallen, revealing the heavy tangle of the vines.
“Do you wish we were living here, instead of Mr. Winslow?” Tory demanded.
“No, I am afraid it would be too lonely unless one were a genius or a lover of nature like Memory Frean. I believe she is lonely herself now and then, although she will never confess it. She and Mr. Winslow are close neighbors. Why can’t you develop a romance between them?”
Emphatically Tory shook her head.
“Certainly not. Memory is years older! Besides, her romance belongs in our family! Goodness, there is Mr. Winslow at the door! He is dreadfully shy and if he should dream I have been romancing about him I am afraid would go back at once to New York.”
A tall, slightly stooped man with the fine brown eyes and sweep of darker brown hair walked down the path to meet them. He was not like Sheila’s mental impression of him. He was younger and had more courtesy, more sense of humor, than she had imagined.
He seemed appreciative of her call without taking it too seriously.
He had been expecting Tory and one of her friends, so had made arrangements for tea.
A fair amount of inexpensive china had been left in an old cabinet at the cabin when the Girl Scouts returned to their homes.
The little stove, set up inside the fireplace, was warmer than an open fire, if not so picturesque.