Camp for little girls

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Iris Harrault stepped back and surveyed the summer porch. It was all ready — newly dusted, the plants all green and thriving, the small wicker table intimately laid for two. The whiskey sours were in the refrigerator and the cold supper prepared. She glanced at her watch, and then out the porch screen which looked out over the wooded drive. No sign of him yet. I'll just freshen myself up, she thought, and then he ought to be here.

She walked into the bathroom, and hurriedly combed her short dark hair and applied a natural lip gloss to her lips. Casting a critical glance over her figure, dressed in yellow — her best color — she nodded to herself in satisfaction. Then she heard the sound of the car.

Running out to the driveway, she was just in time to see her husband John step out of their station wagon.

Happily, she ran right up to him and he hugged her, lifting her small frame right up off the ground.

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