“And mind this. Cissy and Mabel, though you are going to walk behind the school children and carry flowers, you are not to forget that you are young ladies. Mind that.”
“No, mamma!” in duet.
“And—Oh dear me, Hazel, there is some one at the front door, and I’ve only got on my old cap. I really cannot be seen; I—Good gracious me, Hazel, don’t let any one in.”
Too late. Hazel had already opened the door and admitted little Miss Burge, who came trotting in with her face all smiles.
“I thought I should never get through the children,” she panted; “and ain’t it ’ot? How well you do look, my dear! Lavender muslin suits you exactly. And how are you, my bonny little ones?” she cried, kissing the two girls. “But there, I’ve no time to lose. The band will be here directly, and my brother is with the boys; and, Mrs Thorne, he sends his compliments to you.”
Mrs Thorne had drawn herself up very stiffly in her chair, and was preserving a dignified silence, feeling offended at their visitor’s want of recognition; but Mr Burge’s compliments taught her that this patron of the school acknowledged her status in society, and she smiled and bowed.
“And he said that he hoped you would excuse his not calling to invite you himself, but—now, bless my heart, what was the rest of it?”
She looked in a perplexed way at Hazel, and then at the ceiling, as if expecting to read it there.
“Oh, I know—but he had been so busy over the preparations, and he hoped you would come and look on; and the pony carriage will be here to fetch you at twelve.”
“I’m sure—really—I am greatly obliged to Mr Burge—”