"Not one in a hundred; but I am prepared for the worst," Nellie answered, good-naturedly.
"That means she has asked Tom Motherwell," Peter explained.
Then Mrs. Slater told them to hurry along with their supper for the people would soon be coming.
It was Mrs. Slater who had planned the party. Mrs. Slater was the leading spirit in everything in the household that required dash and daring. Hers was the dominant voice, though nothing louder than a whisper had been heard from her for years. She laughed in a whisper, she cried in a whisper. Yet in some way her laugh was contagious, and her tears brought comfort to those with whom she wept.
When she proposed the party the girls foresaw difficulties. The house was small—there were so many to ask—it was a busy time.
Mrs. Slater stood firm.
"Ask everybody," she whispered. "Nobody minds being crowded at a party. I was at a party once where we had to go outside to turn around, the house was so small. I'll never forget what a good time we had."
Mr. Slater was dressed and ready for anything long before the time had come for the guests to arrive. An hour before he had sat down resignedly and said, "Come, girls, do as you think best with the old man, scrub him, polish him, powder him, blacken his eyebrows, do not spare him, he's yours," and the girls had laughingly accepted the privilege.
George, whose duty it was to attend to the lamps for the occasion, came in with a worried look, on his usually placid face.
"The aristocratic parlour-lamp is indisposed," he said. "It has balked, refuses to turn up, and smells dreadfully."