“Let me introduce you to Mr John and Mr Henry Grace,” said Mabel, bringing Ethel up to the rest of the party.
“Have some tea, Ethel, do,” said Clara, holding out her hand a little languidly. “How awfully hot you look.”
Ethel sank down on a chair which one of the others had vacated and allowed herself to be cooled and petted. Clara suddenly began on the subject of the ball.
“What a queer note you sent; what does it all mean?” she asked.
“I will tell you afterwards; I have come over to explain,” said Ethel, “if I can see you—you and dear Mabel for a few minutes alone before I leave.”
“Dear me, what is the mystery?” said Jim, who had flung himself on the grass. “Why can’t you tell us all? It would be no end of a lark. Another rumpus with the mother. Is she more cantankerous than ever?”
“No, mother is quite nice, particularly nice,” said Ethel, who had often explained to the young Carters what a trial her mother was.
“Well, then, come and have a game,” said Jim. “Come along, do, and forget all the worries. If it isn’t the mother it can’t be anything very serious.”
“Yes, but it is, and I cannot tell you,” said Ethel.
She looked so forlorn that everyone present pitied her. Her soft brown eyes filled with sudden tears and overflowed.