"Please do."
"It's much too formal, considering I'm old enough to be your mother."
"Oh, no!" Sally protested involuntarily. "That isn't possible."
"I'll not see fifty-five again," Mrs. Gosnold announced. "But that's a boudoir secret."
"I'll never--"
"And a secret of Polichinelle besides," the other laughed; "everybody I know or care a snap for knows it. At the same time, no woman cares to have her age discussed, even if it is public property and she quite old enough to be beyond such vanity. No matter; I'm going to call you Sara, if you've no objection."
"Why not Sally?" the girl suggested tentatively. "That's my name--I mean, what I'm accustomed to."
"Thank you; I like it even better," Mrs. Gosnold affirmed. "I'm conservative enough to favour old-time names. My own, for instance, Abigail, pleases me immensely, though I seldom meet a young woman these days who can hear it without looking either incredulous or as though she doubted the sanity of my sponsors in baptism."
She stayed the obvious reply with an indulgent toss of a hand still fair.
"Now to work. I've mapped out a busy morning for you. To begin with, here are a dozen or so notes to deliver. You may take the dog-cart--no, to save time, one of the motors. We must give these good people as much time as possible, considering it's a spur-of-the-moment affair. That is why, you understand, there are so few invitations--because I'd no time to write and post a number. But each of these is a bid to some friend with a houseful of people to come and bring all her guests.