“Maybe he didn't come in,” said Eunice.
“If they are in the parlor, you couldn't hear them,” said Henry, still with his half-quizzical, half-pitying air.
“She would have taken him in the parlor—I should think she would have known enough to,” said Eunice; “and you can't always hear talking in the parlor in this room.”
Maria made a move towards her brother's parlor, on the other side of the tiny hall.
“I guess you are right,” said she, “and I know she would have taken him in there. I started a fire in there on purpose before I went to meeting. It was borne in upon me that somebody might come home with her.”
Maria tiptoed into the parlor, with Eunice, still smoothing her bonnet-strings, at her heels. Both women stood close to the wall, papered with white-and-gold paper, and listened.
“I can't hear a single thing,” said Maria.
“I can't either,” said Eunice. “I don't believe he did come in.”
“It's dreadful queer, if he didn't,” said Maria, “after the way he eyed her in meeting.”
“Suppose you go home through the cellar, and see,” said Eunice.