Mrs Murchison and Abby sat on the verandah enjoying the Indian summer afternoon; the horse chestnuts dropped crashing among the fallen leaves, the roadside maples blazed, the quiet streets ran into smoky purple, and one belated robin hopped about the lawn.

Mrs Murchison had just remarked that she didn't know why, at this time of year, you always felt as if you were waiting for something.
"Well, I hope you feel honoured," remarked Abby.

Not one of them would have thought that Lorne should feel especially honoured; but the insincerity was so obvious that it didn't matter.

Mrs Murchison, cocking her head to read the card, tried hard not to look pleased.
"Mrs Milburn.

At Home," she read.