"There goes Mr. Herrick with Zenas Third," announced Miss Mullett, hurrying cautiously to the sitting-room window. As she had been in the act of readjusting her embroidery hoops when she arose, her efforts to secure all the articles in her lap failed and the hoops went circling off in different directions. "They're going fishing, Eve."
"Are they?" asked Eve from the old mahogany desk by the side window, with only a glance from her writing.
"Yes, and—Did you see where those hoops rolled to?"
"No, I didn't notice. But your handkerchief is over by the couch and you're stepping on a skein of linen."
"So I am." Miss Mullett rescued and reassembled her things and sat down again. "Are you very busy, dear?"
"No." Eve sighed impatiently and laid her pen down. "I'm not at all busy. I wish I were. I can't seem to write this morning."
"I'm so glad. Not that you can't write, of course, but that you're not busy. I want to talk."
"Talk on." Eve placed her hands behind her head and eyed the few lines of writing distastefully.
"But I want you to talk, too," said Miss Mullett, snipping a thread with her tiny scissors.
"I haven't anything to say."