She started slightly. The front door bell was ringing—a long trill, uncannily loud in the quiet house. She sat rigid in her chair, waiting. Billy came in.
“Front door key, please?” he asked urbanely. She gave him the key.
“Find out who it is before you unlock the door,” she said. He nodded. She heard him at the door, then a murmur of voices—Dale’s voice and another’s—“Won’t you come in for a few minutes? Oh, thank you.” She relaxed.
The door opened; it was Dale. How lovely she looks in that evening wrap! thought Miss Cornelia. But how tired, too. I wish I knew what was worrying her.
She smiled. “Aren’t you back early, Dale?”
Dale threw off her wrap and stood for a moment patting back into its smooth, smart bob, hair ruffled by the wind.
“I was tired,” she said, sinking into a chair.
“Not worried about anything?” Miss Cornelia’s eyes were sharp.
“No,” said Dale without conviction, “but I’ve come here to be company for you and I don’t want to run away all the time.” She picked up the evening paper and looked at it without apparently seeing it. Miss Cornelia heard voices in the hall—a man’s voice—affable—“How have you been, Billy?”—Billy’s voice in answer, “Very well, sir.”
“Who’s out there, Dale?” she queried.