“All right!” said the other good-humoredly. “Then mother ’ll come to-morrow and ask you.”
“But—” Benedicta began.
She found it hard to go on. Impossible as Miss Wilkinson was, it was difficult to dislike her. The idea of a week-end in her company was terribly tempting. It was an invitation to be young for a little while.
“But,” Benedicta went on more gently, “you see, you live so near, it really seems absurd to stay overnight. I should like very much to come some afternoon—”
Miss Wilkinson had said a week-end, and a week-end she intended to have.
“If I could get her away from this ghastly house, the girl would be entirely different,” she thought. “Poor thing! She really wants to come, too.”
So she kept at it, and, being an obstinate creature, accustomed to her own way, she at last obtained Benedicta’s reluctant consent.
“I’ll come for you on Friday, before dinner,” she said gayly.
Off she went, well pleased with herself, and with Benedicta, and with almost everything else in the world.
But Mr. Miller! Better to pass over that[Pg 132] interview, for it accomplished nothing except to make both father and daughter very miserable. Even Mr. Miller was forced to admit that, as the invitation had been accepted, nothing could be done. All the Millers did what they said they would do, no matter how disastrous the consequences. All he wished was to say what he thought of this undignified, improper proceeding, and he did so.