"I suppose Madam O'Connor and all her party, and the Frenches, and Lord Rossmoyne,—who I hear is still in the country,—and——Penelope, my dear, will you sit down and write the invitations now for Friday next, as I must get ready to go to the coast-guard station? That girl of Mitson's is ill, and wants to see me."
Monica rising at this moment to leave the room, Kit follows her.
"It is really too amazing," she says, when they find themselves in the hall. "To think of their blossoming into a real live party! I feel quite overcome."
"So do I," says Monica, laughing.
"There is only one drawback to it," says Kit, softly: "I am so sorry Brian can't be asked."
Monica flushes furiously, and swerves away from her somewhat impatiently; but reply she makes none.
"There are cobwebs in my brain," says Kit, raising her hands languidly to her head, with the oppressed air of one who is bravely struggling with a bad headache. "I think I shall go for a walk to Biddy Daly's to try and rout them. I promised her old mother a pudding the last day I was there, and to-day cook has it ready for me. Will you come with me, Monica? Do."
"Not [to-day], I think," says Monica, lazily.
"I wish you would! I do so hate going anywhere by myself. And, somehow, I am half afraid to go alone to-day, I feel—so—so faint. However," with a resigned sigh, "never mind; I dare say if I do drop in a deadly swoon, somebody will pick me up."
"My dear Kit, if you feel like that, don't go," says Monica, naturally alarmed.