"I think you're a very silly child," returned Mrs. Clarke, with a distinct tone of annoyance in her voice. "You must not bring girls to the house without asking me first."
"But, Mother darling, you weren't in this afternoon, and I'd thought of the tableaux, and I couldn't arrange any of the parts until I knew what dresses would fit Dorothy. I simply had to get her to come and try them on. And it was such fun having her to tea. Mayn't I ask her to spend the day here next Saturday? Oh, and if you would let her stay until Monday, we'd have such a glorious time!"
"Certainly not; I couldn't think of such a thing," replied Mrs. Clark decisively.
"But, Mother—Mother dearest—why not? You said yourself what a nice girl she looked that first day we saw her in the train, and how glad you were that I had her to travel to school with."
"That was quite a different matter."
"But why shouldn't I have her to the house? Oh, Mother, I told Dorothy that I meant to ask you to invite her, and if you don't I shall feel so silly. What could I say to her? Mother sweetest, please, please!"
"You have no right to give invitations without consulting me first, Birdie," said Mrs. Clarke, who looked more displeased than her daughter remembered ever having seen her before. "I cannot allow you to make friends with girls of whom I know nothing."
"But you'd know her if she came here, Motherkins."
"I don't wish to—nor do I want you to continue the acquaintance. No, Birdie, it is impossible. I absolutely forbid you to ask this Dorothy Greenfield here again."
It was the first time Mrs. Clarke had ever set her will in direct opposition to Alison's, and the spoilt child could hardly realize that she was not to be allowed, as usual, to do as she liked. She burst out into a final appeal.