“You and me,” said Florimel honestly. “I’d got tired of being so steady ever since you came. I’m always getting into scrapes; I thought it was time you got acquainted with the real me—not that this is a scrape! But honest and true, I did think you looked as if it was time something shook you up, little lady-mother.”
“I felt that,” Mrs. Garden acknowledged. “But, really, Florimel, I hope you won’t feel obliged to go to extremes to enliven me! Oughtn’t she get off those wet clothes, Mary; oughtn’t she, Anne? Do you really think it won’t make her ill?”
“She’s proof against illness, or she’d have been buried ten years ago,” said Anne. “She’s as healthy as a ragamuffin—which she looks like! Of course you must go and dress, Florimel! Did you leave your frock at Allie’s? Lunch is almost ready, too.”
“Oh, Jerusalem Halifax Goshen! My steak, my steak! You abominable, desolating Florimel, if it’s burnt!” screamed Abbie, dropping her pail, with the glass now floating on its surface, and ambling toward the house, her big palm leaf fan making her look like a large insect with one disabled wing.
“If Florimel sees that you need entertaining, I think we’d better give a tea for you, and invite Vineclad to make your acquaintance, madrina,” said Mary, offering her mother her arm for support from the garden to the house after the shock of Florimel’s invasion.
Mrs. Garden slipped her hand into Mary’s arm and shook it delightedly. “If only you would!” she cried. “I’ve been wishing you would, but I didn’t like to suggest it. Why not a garden party? I have the loveliest gown for it you ever saw in all your life, and a hat that shades my face just enough! They told me it made me look less than twenty-five! I wore it at home in England. But only once, girls; think of it! Do give me a party! I never wore that delicious costume except to the fête champêtre which dear Lady Hermione gave when Balindale came of age. You know Lord Balindale is not yet twenty-two, and this was his twenty-first birthday, last September. The gown isn’t in the least out of style. How lovely you are, Mary, to have thought of this!”
Mary stopped short in their slow progress houseward. She looked at her mother, and then at Jane aghast. “Oh, little mother,” she cried, “what are we to do! Here you’ve been playing with countesses and having coming-of-age parties, precisely like an English story, and we’ve nothing in the least splendid to give you here! The greatest personages in all Vineclad and its neighbourhood are Mrs. Dean, the widow of the founder of the college; the various ministers’ wives, and the doctors’ and lawyers’ families, and the bank families; and a retired author, who is really very nice, but doesn’t care to go out a great deal; and Mr. and Mrs. Moulton! And is Lord Balindale an earl?”
“Certainly he is, but one doesn’t expect earls in a republic. Americans are quite as nice in manners and as clever as titled people—provided they are nice Americans—though, as a rule, their voices are not as good! Of course one doesn’t expect much in a small country place! But pray give the party, Mary! At least I can wear my gown, and it will be something to think about!” begged Mrs. Garden.
“Of course, if you want it,” Mary hesitated, but Jane cried:
“That’s the idea; it will be an excuse for dressing up, and being nice yourself! I always imagined parties were things to dress up for more than they were to enjoy. All I ever went to were, anyway! We’ll have a lovely garden party, little madrina, if only because you’ll be lovely at it!”