“You’re older than Grace,” began Mrs. Atherton to gain a little time before the storm should begin again around her head.
“Only one month,” said Bella; “what’s that?”
“Sixteen days!” cried Grace, “only sixteen days! Just think of that paltry atom of time to keep one away from that glorious reception. Uncle, wouldn’t you be ashamed to have every one know that Aunt Fay kept me away for just sixteen days? I should positively die of mortification.”
“Well, you cannot go anyway,” suddenly and decidedly declared Mrs. Atherton. Mrs. Drysdale or no Mrs. Drysdale, whom she followed when it suited her to do so, she was determined to keep to that decision. “It is of no use to argue and to tease—you cannot go.”
Bella dragged Grace off to her room, and shut the door on their woes.
“I shall go! I shall go!” declared Grace in a white heat, raging up and down the room.
“Oh, mercy! Mrs. King won’t have you, if you go on that way. She’s awfully nice and particular. Stop it, Grace.” Bella shook her arm.
“I’m going—I’m going—I’m going, so there!” declared Grace determinedly. “That’s settled. Now, how shall I do it? Help me to think, Bella.” She stopped suddenly.
“What’s the use of thinking,” cried that young lady, throwing herself on the broad window-seat in among its cushions, and stretching restfully, “as long as you can’t go?”
“As long as I can go, you mean,” corrected Grace, an ugly little gleam in her blue eyes.