“Oh, Connie,” she said, “you can’t be in earnest.”
But that was all.
I only saw her once again before the birthday, and that was after church on Sunday, when Mary came running after mamma and me—we were walking home rather quickly—to say that Evey had sent her to remind me not on any account to be later than three o’clock on Tuesday afternoon. Tuesday was the day.
“Certainly, dear,” mamma replied, as I hesitated a little, “Connie will be in good time. If it is a wet day she must have a fly, for our pony—the one we drive—has got a cold, unluckily.”
“But it’s not going to be a rainy day,” said Mary, brightly. “It’s going to be lovely. So if it’s fine, Connie, do walk, and we’ll meet you. I hope the field path won’t be too muddy with the rain last week.”
And off she flew again, before I had time to say anything. But mamma looked at me inquiringly.
“Is there anything the matter, darling?” she said, anxiously. I had not told her about Anna—I was ashamed of myself in my heart.
“Everything’s the matter,” I said, shaking myself, crossly. And then I told her. Mamma was sorry for me, and sorry about the thing itself.
“I do think Evey might have—” she began, but then she stopped. Her conscience would not let her say more. It was so very clear a case of right and wrong, of selfishness and unselfishness. For she knew, and I knew, that it was not often the Whytes could afford, any sort of “treat”—they lived very simply and plainly, and the cakes for the birthday were thought of a long time before. They were glad to ask Anna to an entertainment which would really please her and her friends, much more than being invited to tea with them quite in an every-day way.
“Dear Connie,” mamma went on, “you must try to be self-denying too. After all, I daresay Anna won’t interfere much with your amusement.”