"But I can quite understand it," continued Miss Mullett, laying aside her hat and smoothing down her hair. Miss Mullett's hair was somewhat of the shade of beech leaves in fall and was not as thick as it had once been. She wore it parted in the middle and combed straight down over the tips of her ears. Such severe framing emphasized the gentleness of her face. "You know yourself, Eve dear, that the first summer we were here we often found ourselves entering the wrong gate. The houses are as much alike as two peas."
"I know. But, oh, Carrie, if you could have seen his expression when it dawned on him that he was in the wrong house! It's too bad to laugh at him, but I just have to."
"I hope you didn't laugh while he was here," said Miss Mullett, anxiously.
"I'm afraid I did—just a little," replied Eve, contritely. "But I don't think he saw it. He was too—too bewildered and horrified, and terribly embarrassed. I really pitied him. I don't think I ought to pity him, either, for he gave me quite a fright when he opened the front door and walked in just as though he'd come to murder us all."
"Poor man!" sighed Miss Mullett. "He must be feeling awfully about it. And—and didn't you think him exceedingly nice looking? So big and—and manly!"
"Manly?" laughed Eve. "He looked to me more like a very small boy discovered in the preserve closet!"
"Of course, but I'm afraid you were a little—oh, the least little bit unfeeling, dear."
"Perhaps I was," owned Eve, thoughtfully. "I shouldn't want him to think me—impolite."
"No indeed! Do you think he will call?"
"After this morning? My dear Carrie, did he look to you like a man coming to call?"