The new heir to the Court is said to be about to return from "foreign parts," and intends coming down in about a fortnight's time to take formal possession of his inheritance.
There is to be first a tenants' dinner, and then a ball, to which every one for miles round is to be invited. Of course the whole neighbourhood is in a tremendous state of excitement over this unexpected news, more especially as it is reported that the new baronet intends living at the Court a good deal. There is much speculation on many points, and mothers who have unmarried daughters on their hands still, nod approvingly at all they hear of the preparations in connection with the proposed gaieties—all hoping for the best. For some declare that he is as yet a bachelor, though others are equally certain that he has been married for years.
Sir Edward Ferrars does not, it appears, feel disposed to gratify their curiosity on this point any more than any other. For he does not attempt to come near the place, leaving all arrangements as to the entertainment entirely in the hands of those appointed to carry it through, calmly announcing that he does not intend putting in an appearance himself until absolutely necessary. People are obliged perforce to be content, and they can only look forward to the day of the ball with redoubled zest.
In course of time cards of invitation are sent out for July 10th, the Merivale's being for "Mrs. and the Miss Merivales." Doris goes up to town soon after this to stay for a few days with her aunt, and Lancelot coming in one day she shows him the invitation.
"I brought it up to show aunt," she says.
Mr. Ferrars laughs a little.
"Sir Edward thought it best to say 'the Miss Merivales,' I suppose. I did say there were three of you, but I daresay he forgot. He's a queer sort of fellow, I believe. His predecessor was also rather eccentric, you know. Of course you are all going, Doris?" he says presently. "I shall be there. One of my aunts is going to play hostess for Sir Edward, and I have promised to go and help them. It's an awful bore, though."
"Honor and I are going," says Doris, referring to the first remark. "I am not quite sure about Molly."
"O, let little Molly go! Besides," cries Lancelot with energy, "she must, as my future bride's sister, you know."
Doris stares a little.