noon. The screen door banged as the delivery boys came and went with cheerful greetings, and outside was hot sunshine except for the cool pools of shade under the maple trees, and the smell of freshly sprinkled dust in the street.
If only a party was just the getting ready for it—spreading the icing thickly on small spicy cakes, setting a copper bowl of Miss Smith's big marguerites in a shadowy corner of the cool studio, buttoning Jodie into his fresh linen Russian blouse. But there was always that awful pause just before things began, when she felt really sick with shyness and apprehension.
She and Joe waited in the studio. She was sure no one was coming. Everything was ready—the flowers, the punch bowl, the tea table, the cakes she had made, and the wonderful ones Joe had brought home in light square boxes. And Joe so beautiful he made her blink, rocking from heels to toes on the hearth rug, making conversation. No one was coming! And then the first ring at the doorbell pierced them both, went right through them, so that they felt like two little birds on a skewer.
The three Misses Mortimer were the first to come. Kate urged them to have sandwiches, cakes, more tea, loving them for breaking that spell of expectancy, knowing that this would be their supper, too. Poor old frights. The way they got themselves up! Paint, and dirty white gloves, and beaded dresses with bead-
