The old gentleman lowered his head. "Yes, yes," he hastened to say. "Quite so, quite so. Then we may expect you at eight, Sara, and you, Miss Castleton. Mrs. Wrandall is looking forward to seeing you again. It isn't often she takes a liking to—ahem! I beg your pardon, Leslie?"
"I was just going to suggest that we move along, dad. I fancy you want to get at your trunks, Sara. Smuggled a few things through, eh? Women never miss a chance to get a couple of dozen dresses through, as you'll discover if you become a real American, Miss Castleton. It's in the blood."
Mr. Wrandall fell into another trap. "Now please remember that we are to dine very informally," he hastened to say, his mind on the smuggled gowns. It was his experience that gowns that escaped duty invariably were "creations."
Leslie got him away.
As soon as they were alone, Hetty turned to her friend.
"Oh, Sara, can't you go without me? Tell them that I am ill—suddenly ill. I—I don't think it right or honourable of me to accept—"
Sara shook her head, and the words died on the girl's lips.
"You must play the game, Hetty."
"It's—very hard," murmured the other, her face very white and bleak.
"I know, my dear," said Sara gently.