I wondered why she said "we." But Frank explained that.
"Mr. Thorne is quite interested in the affair, I can assure you, Mr. Maliphant," said he. "He's going to put a splendid figure to head our subscription list."
Father did not say a word. His shaggy eyebrows were down over his eyes.
"Oh, well, father never is stingy with his money; I must say that for him," said Mary. "He'll give anything to anything." Then turning to me, she added: "We're going to squeeze in a garden-party next week, before we run up to town again. They say one must give entertainments this electioneering-time. At least that Mr. Hoad says so, and he seems to have done a great deal of this kind of thing from what he says. We did two dinners before we went up to London, but a garden-party is jolly—it includes so many. You'll come, won't you? All of you. You're just about the only people I care to ask, you know."
She ran on in her frank, funny way—always quite transparent—not noticing father's scowl and Frank Forrester pulling his mustache, and trying to catch her eye. If she had she would have turned the matter off; she was no fool, but what she had said was what she thought.
Father answered before I could speak. "My eldest daughter is away, Miss Thorne," he said, "and I'm sorry to say Margaret must refuse your kind invitation. My girls are farmer's children, and are not used to mixing with folk in other stations of life."
I felt the color fly to my face, for it was a discourteous speech, and not even perfectly honest, for Mary Thorne had met us at the squire's house although we were only farmer's daughters. It mortified me to have father do himself injustice before Frank Forrester.
But Mary took it charmingly. For a moment she looked astonished, then she said, with a merry laugh: "Ah, I see what it is, Mr. Maliphant; you're a Tory. I beg your pardon, I forgot you were the squire's friend. I'm dreadfully stupid about politics. I'm quite ashamed of myself."
Father seemed about to reply, but was stopped by a merry laugh from Frank, whom Mary, however, silenced by a pretty little astonished stare.
"Oh, pray don't apologize," said she to father. "Only don't you try to tell me another time that your daughters are not used to good society. I know better," added she, smiling at me. "I know who was voted the best dancer at the squire's ball. And as for your eldest daughter—well, we know how many heads she has turned with her beauty."