"Oh, on week days--certainly," he agreed stiffly. "On Sundays,
unless I am entirely wrong, we sit down before six."

"Len," Martie murmured, "why don't you go make yourself some toast?"

"Don't have to!" Len laughed with his mouth full.

"Here--I'll go out and make some more!" Rodney said buoyantly,
catching up a plate. Lydia instantly intervened; this would not do.
Pa would be furious. Obviously Martie could not go, because in her
absence Pa, Rodney, and Len would either be silent, or say what was
better unsaid. Lydia herself went out for a fresh supply of toast.

Martie was grateful, but in misery. Lydia was always slow. The
endless minutes wore away, she and Rodney playing with their empty
plates, Len also waiting hungrily, her father watching them
sombrely. If Len hadn't come in and been so greedy, Martie thought
in confused anger, tea would have been safely over by this time; if
Pa were not there glowering she might have chattered at her ease
with Rodney, no tea hour would have been too long. As it was, she
was self-conscious and constrained. The clock struck six. Really it
WAS late.

The toast came in; Sally came in demurely at her mother's side. She
had rushed out of the shadows to join her mother at the gate, much
to Mrs. Monroe's surprise. Conversation, subdued but general,
ensued. Martie walked boldly with Rodney to the gate, at twenty
minutes past six, and they stood there, laughing and talking, for
another ten minutes.