"Come right in—what you knocking for when the door sets ajar?" says I to her.
Miss Mayhew stood in the doorway, her rough short skirt and stout boots and red sweater all saying "I'm going for a walk," even before she did. Only she adds: "I wanted to let you know I don't think I'll get back for supper."
"Such a boarder I never saw," I says. "You don't eat enough for a bird when you're here. And when you ain't, you're off gallivanting over the hills with nothing whatever to eat. And me with a fresh spice-cake just out of the oven for your supper."
"I'm so sorry," Miss Mayhew says, penitent to see.
I laid down my work. "You let me put you up a couple o' pieces to nibble on," says I.
"You're so good. May I come too?" Miss Mayhew asks, and smiled bright at the other two women, who smiled back broad and almost tender—Miss Mayhew's smile made you do that.
"I s'pose them writing folks can't stop to think of food," Mis' Toplady says as we went out.
"Look at her lugging a book. What's she want to be bothered with that for?" Mis' Holcomb says.
But that kind of fault-finding don't necessarily mean unkindness. With us it was as natural as a glance.