“But, really, we scarcely know the Misses Benny sufficiently well to ask——”
“But I know them, and I’ll ask. Now, please, Mrs. Hayes, don’t throw any more obstacles in the child’s way. The Bennys will call for your charming daughter at nine o’clock to-morrow evening. If they call in vain, I shall never, never speak to you again.” And, with a smiling nod, she gave her impatient horse the rein, and trotted briskly away.
Here was something to discuss during the remainder of our walk, and over our tea!
“I am sure the Bennys will hate having to take me,” I remarked. “I would really rather brave Mrs. Cholmondeley’s wrath and not go. She might have asked me before, if she desired my company so much; and I think it is extremely rude of her to leave you out, and declare that you would be bored. Why should you be more bored than I?”
“You are quite different, dear. You don’t understand.”
“No, I don’t understand,” I answered with angry impatience; “and I am not going.”
“Oh, but, Gwen, I wish you to go. Go to please me. You never get any variety or amusement.”
“It will be no amusement to me to drive six miles cramped up in a fly with the Miss Bennys, and to sit for a couple of hours with my back to the wall, not knowing a soul to speak to.”
“There will be music; and I dare say Mrs. Cholmondeley will get you some partners. Your dress is ready. I hope it won’t take any harm. It is not as if it was going to be a regular ball; if it was, I should be afraid to risk it. I want to keep the bloom on it for Christmas Day. I don’t suppose there will be a large gathering at the Moate, for I doubt if Mrs. Cholmondeley is in the best set. She is of no family, so Miss Skuce said, but had an immense fortune—made in margarine. It was kind of her to ask you, darling; and I really think you ought to take her invitation as it was meant—and go.”