“It’s your look-out,” she said to every appeal. “Let’s see what sort of a hand you’ll make of it, my beauty.”
I was in despair. I longed to issue my invitations, but till Mrs Nash was “squared” it was out of the question to name the happy day. It was evidently useless to argue the matter. The best thing I could do was to let it alone, and allow her to imagine the scheme had been abandoned.
In this calculation I was correct. Some days afterwards, happening to be in the parlour with her after breakfast, she said, “And when’s your grand party, as you call it, coming off, Mr Batchelor?”
I started up in rapture at the question.
“Then you will help me, Mrs Nash?” I cried, running up to her, and taking it all for granted.
She first looked amazed, then angry, and finally she smiled.
“I never said so. You’re a sight too independent for my taste, you are. I ain’t a-goin’ to put my fingers into where I ain’t wanted.”
“But you are wanted, and you will be a brick, I know!” cried I, almost hugging her in my eagerness.
The battle was won, and that morning I went down to the office positively jubilant. My party was fixed for Thursday!
I felt particularly important when the time came for inviting Doubleday and Crow to the festive assembly. I had rehearsed as I walked along the very words and tones I would use. On no account must they suppose the giving of a party was the momentous event it really proved itself.