Lynch promptly forgot she was a Forsyth and
that the dinner might not be good enough and put her arms around her and
kissed her. And Robin with an impulsive movement snuggled closer to the
warm embrace.
"Why, it's a mite of a thing you are," cried Mrs. Moira with the singing
note in her voice that always came when she was deeply moved. "And
hungry, I hope. Well, Dale will be here in a moment and then we'll dish
up."
Then everything was just like Robin had hoped it would be. Beryl's
mother called them "children" and let them help her with the finishing
touches of the dinner. Beryl's father smiled at her and patted her hand.
She did not see the little room with Beryl's eyes, its limited space
into which so much had to be crowded, the cracked shade on the lamp, the
dingy carpeting that held together through some kind miracle, she only
thought it cosy and homey; she liked the queer old clock and the blue
bowl filled with artificial jonquils and the crocheted "tidies" with
dogs designed in intricate stitches.
"Here's Dale!" whispered Beryl. "I'm crazy to meet his friend. I'm going
to sit next to him at the table, see if I don't.
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