John Hardy swung the car into the drive and they rolled up the grade to the porch.
“Pity you couldn’t take a man to his own door,” chided his friend.
“All right, I will if you want to miss the lunch that’s waiting.”
They bantered good naturedly, for John Hardy and Henry Thorne had been companions since boyhood. Now their correspondence was haphazard and infrequent, but each anticipated their visits together.
Janet hastened to the kitchen to help her mother with the lunch, placing the delicious, thinly cut sandwiches on a large silver platter. There was a heap of them, but it was late and they were all hungry.
Her mother stopped halfway to the dining room, a stricken look appearing on her face.
“I completely forgot to stop on the way home and get ice cream.”
Janet looked at the clock. It was 1:15 a. m.
“I’m afraid it’s too late to find any place near here open. We’ll make out anyway with sandwiches, cheese wafers and tea.”
“There’s some chocolate cake left over from yesterday,” said her mother.