"Reception?" said Alma.
"Hasn't she told you about it?" he said, and being answered that I had not, he gave a rough outline of his project, whereupon Alma, whose former attitude towards my father had changed to one of flattery and subservience, lifted her hands and cried:
"How splendid! Such an inspiration! Only think, my love, you were to be kept bright and cheerful, and what could be better for that purpose?"
In the torment of my soul I urged one objection after another—it would be expensive, we could not afford it.
"Who asks you to afford it? It's my affair, isn't it?" said my father.
I was unwell, and therefore unable to undertake the hard work of such an entertainment—but that was the worst of excuses, for Alma jumped in with an offer of assistance.
"My dearest child," she said, "you know how happy I shall be to help you. In fact, I'll do all the work and you shall have all the glory."
"There you are, then," cried my father, slapping me on the shoulder, and then, turning to Alma, he told her to set to work without a day's delay.
"Let everything be done correct even if it costs me a bit of money."
"Yes, sir."