Quicksand
and baggage, then I‘ll have a hot bath and a really good meal, peep into the shops—mustn‘t buy anything—and then for Uncle Peter. Guess I won‘t phone. More effective if I surprise him.”
It was late, very late, almost evening, when finally Helga turned her steps northward, in the direction of Uncle Peter‘s home. She had put it off as long as she could, for she detested her errand. The fact that that one day had shown her its acute necessity did not decrease her distaste. As she approached the North Side, the distaste grew. Arrived at last at the familiar door of the old stone house, her confidence in Uncle Peter‘s welcome deserted her. She gave the bell a timid push and then decided to turn away, to go back to her room and phone, or, better yet, to write. But before she could retreat, the door was opened by a strange red-faced maid, dressed primly in black and white. This increased Helga‘s mistrust. Where, she wondered, was the ancient Rose, who had,
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