was about Polly's age and perhaps a bit prettier, although, to quote Laurie again, it all depended on whether you liked light hair or dark. Mae's hair was pure sunshine, and her skin was milk-white and rose-pink; and, which aroused Polly's envy, she never freckled.
As the four had known each other since autumn there was no stiffness apparent in either speech or action. Ned lolled back in the comfortable old patent rocker, with his legs over one arm of it, and Laurie swung his feet from the table, secure in the knowledge that Polly's mother was upstairs. Laurie had a weakness for positions allowing him full liberty for his feet. Polly was talking. She and Mae, arms entwined, occupied the couch between the windows. A shining kettle on the stove hissed cozily, and a big black cat, Towser by name, purred in Ned's lap as he scratched her head.
"There's something wrong with him," stated Polly convincedly. "I've noticed it for quite a while, more than two weeks. He looks dreadfully gloomy and unhappy, and he—he's absent-minded, too. Just this afternoon he went off
