"And I dressed for dinner every day he was here, if we are each to recapitulate all our sacrifices on his behalf. But, for all that, I didn't expect to be invited to his house. I shall be only too glad if he will come again to mine."
"I've a great mind not to let Cynthia go," said Mrs. Gibson reflectively.
"I can't go, mamma," said Cynthia, colouring. "My gowns are all so shabby, and my old bonnet must do for the summer."
"Well, but you can buy a new one; and I'm sure it is high time you should get yourself another silk gown. You must have been saving up a great deal, for I don't know when you've had any new clothes."
Cynthia began to say something, but stopped short. She went on buttering her toast, but she held it in her hand without eating it; without looking up either, as, after a minute or two of silence, she spoke again:—
"I cannot go. I should like it very much; but I really cannot go. Please, mamma, write at once, and refuse it."
"Nonsense, child! When a man in Mr. Kirkpatrick's position comes forward to offer a favour, it does not do to decline it without giving a sufficient reason. So kind of him as it is, too!"
"Suppose you offer to go instead of me?" proposed Cynthia.
"No, no! that won't do," said Mr. Gibson, decidedly. "You can't transfer invitations in that way. But, really, this excuse about your clothes does appear to be very trivial, Cynthia, if you have no other reason to give."
"It is a real, true reason to me," said Cynthia, looking up at him as she spoke. "You must let me judge for myself. It would not do to go there in a state of shabbiness, for even in Doughty Street, I remember, my aunt was very particular about dress; and now that Margaret and Helen are grown up, and they visit so much,—pray don't say anything more about it, for I know it would not do."