“Oh, yes! Cousin Fanny says she will make it all right,—that she can manage Mr. Worcester; and I guess she can, for she always does make everybody and every thing do just as she chooses. We shall go, I know; and won’t we have a grand time?”
“I wish Susie could go too,” was her friend’s only reply. “It looks a little selfish in me to go and leave her behind.”
“Nonsense! No, it doesn’t. She won’t think any thing of it. Cousin Fanny never heard of her, you know. Of course, Susan wouldn’t want you to stay at home on her account. That would be selfish enough!”
“If she were only invited too,” persisted Carrie, “I should be perfectly happy.”
“She can’t think it strange that she isn’t, when Fanny never heard of her existence,” replied Florence. “Sometimes I wish I never had myself. She’s a regular nuisance. I’m sick to death of her very name. It’s always ‘Susan! Susan!’ with you, if any thing comes up. But don’t let us talk any more about her now. She isn’t invited; and that’s all about it.”
Florence had her own reasons for not wishing to talk on this subject. In her cousin’s note she had told her that if there were any others of her school-mates whom she wished to invite, she had only to let her know; and, though Florence was determined that Susan should not go, Carrie’s regrets on the subject made her feel very uncomfortable.
“What shall you wear?” she asked, as much for the sake of diverting her friend’s mind as for any other reason.
“I don’t know, I’m sure,” said Carrie. “I wish mother had let me bring some of my evening dresses; but there wouldn’t be time to send home for one now.”
“Why not wear our white muslins? With pretty sashes and bows on the sleeves, they will look quite nice.”
“It’s as well to think so, at least,” returned Caroline; “for they are the only dresses we have here at all suitable.”