"Oh, Clare, you might come to us," cried Alwynne. "I can't see why you won't."
Clare shrugged her shoulders.
"If you can't see why, my dear Alwynne, there's no more to be said."
Alwynne most certainly did not see; but Clare's delicately reproachful tone convicted her, and incidentally Elsbeth, of some failure in tact. She supposed she had blundered ... she often did.... But Elsbeth, at least, must be exonerated ... she did so want Clare to think well of Elsbeth....
She perjured herself in hasty propitiation.
"Yes. Yes—I do see. I ought to have known, of course. Elsbeth was quite right. She said you wouldn't, all along."
"Oh?" Clare sat up. "Oh? Your aunt said that, did she?" She spoke with detachment, but inwardly she was alert, on guard. Elsbeth had suddenly become worth attention.
"Oh, yes." Alwynne's voice was rueful. "She was quite sure of it. She said I might ask you, with pleasure, if I didn't believe her—you see, she'd love you to come—but she didn't think you would."
"I wonder," said Clare, laughing naturally, "what made her say that?"
"She said she knew you better than I did," confided Alwynne, with one of her spurts of indignation. "As if——"