"Well, there are some he won't get acquainted with," lamented Carl.
"If you mean us I reckon he can worry along without," Mrs. McGregor retorted, with a twinkle in her eye. "He's managed to up to now."
"We're just as good as anybody else," her son blazed.
"Undoubtedly we are," was the good-humored answer. "Nevertheless we won't be missed in a crowd like that."
"Don't you want to go to the party, Ma?"
"Why, to tell the truth, I haven't had time to think much about it, sonny—that is, not to be disappointed. I'm not pretending, though, that so many parties come my way that a fine one such as this wouldn't be a treat. I can't remember the day I've been to anything of the sort. It's a quarter of a century or more, certainly—not since I was a girl and went to the balls the gentry gave in Scotland."
"Oh, I do so wish we were going to Mr. Coulter's," Carl repeated.
"I'll not deny I'd like to," confessed his mother a bit wistfully. "Still, were we to go what a stew we'd be in! It would mean days of washing and ironing; new neckties and maybe shoes for you boys; and hair ribbons and folderols for Mary and Nell. Before we were all properly equipped it would cost a pretty penny. We'd have no right to go without looking decent and being a credit to your father and to Mr. Coulter who was good enough to ask us. So, you see, there are advantages in everything. If we are not invited we shall have none of the trouble and expense of it," concluded the woman philosophically.
"I wouldn't mind the trouble, Mother," burst out Carl. "I wouldn't even care if I didn't have new shoes. Why, I'd go in my bathing suit."
Nodding her head his mother regarded him with withering censure.