As Laurel stepped off the running-board, Mrs. Morrison put her arm around her and kissed her lightly on the cheek. Afterwards she left her arm there in a casual sort of way as if she forgot to remove it.
"Let's come into the house this way," she suggested, and gently drew Laurel across the lawn towards the French windows. "I've tea and cakes all ready," she said in a low tone, as if it was a confidence not meant for Stephen's ears. "And cinnamon toast." She gave Laurel's shoulders the tiniest little bit of squeeze.
Arm in arm with Mrs. Morrison, Laurel stepped across the low threshold of the French window into a big, generous, library-sort of room, with a grand piano at one end, and books all around the dark walls.
It was as easy as that, getting into the house, and all of the way down Laurel had been making herself miserable wondering just how it would be accomplished—whether there would be a butler as in most movies, to answer the bell, or a maid; and if the butler or the maid took your suitcase, like bellboys in hotels, or if you just held onto it yourself. Laurel's father had told her that he must run directly back to New York, after leaving her at Mrs. Morrison's, to catch his train. She had supposed that he had meant he couldn't even see her across the threshold. But no. He followed her into the big room, carrying her suitcase himself, and showed no sign of hurrying away.
There was an Irish setter in the room, lying down by a big chair as Laurel entered it with Mrs. Morrison.
