“Friends of mine,” said Sylvia. “Miss Horne and Miss Hobart. I told you about them.”
“But they’re getting out,” Philip gasped, in horror. “They’re coming here.”
“I know,” Sylvia said. “I hope there’s plenty for tea. They always give me the most enormous teas.” And without waiting for any more of Philip’s protests she hurried down-stairs and out into the road to welcome the two ladies. They were both of them dressed in pigeon’s-throat silk under more lace even than usual, and arrived in a state of enthusiasm over Ernie’s driving and thankfulness for the company of Mr. Pluepott, who was also extremely pleased with the whole turn-out.
“A baby in arms couldn’t have handled that pony more carefully,” he declared, looking at Ernie with as much pride as if he had begotten him.
“We’re so looking forward to meeting Mr. Iredale,” said Miss Horne.
“We hear he’s a great scholar,” said Miss Hobart.
Sylvia took them into the dining-room, where she was glad to see that a gigantic tea had been prepared—a match even for the most profuse of Sunny Bank’s.
Then she went up-stairs to fetch Philip, who flatly refused to come down.
“You must come,” Sylvia urged. “I’ll never forgive you if you don’t.”
“My dearest Sylvia, I really cannot entertain the eccentricities of Tintown here. You invited them. You must look after them. I’m busy.”