"This is Laurel, Michael," called out Mrs. Morrison to the dog. "Come and tell her how glad we are to see her."
The dog got up, stretched, and wagged his tail languidly, then, with a sudden brightening of expression, a sudden tightening of muscles he barked twice, and shoved past Mrs. Morrison and Laurel towards Stephen, making joyous little whining sounds as he fell to lavishing damp dog-kisses on the hand that held Laurel's suitcase.
"There's no doubt about how glad he is to see your father, is there?" laughed Mrs. Morrison. "Michael adores your father, Laurel, as we all do around here," she added carelessly. "Come, we'll run upstairs, and wash our hands. Give me the suitcase, Stephen."
"Laurel will take the suitcase," said Stephen. "It's not heavy."
"Yes, I'll take it," said Laurel.
"All right. Come along. And, oh, Stephen," Mrs. Morrison called back over her shoulder, in that sort of singing voice of hers, "just light the hot water, will you please?"
There was a tea-table, with a white cloth near one of the windows, with shining silver on it, and shining tea-cups and a plate or two of snowy sandwiches and a basket of frosted cakes. "We'll be down in a minute."
2
Upstairs, inside the most exquisite little bathroom Laurel had ever stepped foot in—creamy tiles clear to the ceiling, creamy floor, creamy fit-
