“I shall write to the Colonel of the Grenadiers and order it. Anyhow, you can play the Goblin polka if we get stuck up.”
Jill wondered whether, after an hour or two, her one piece (even though dear Mr Armstrong liked it) might not pall on a large assembly, and she devoutly hoped the Grenadiers would accept.
“There’s a hundred and fifty names down,” said Tom. “May as well have the lot while we’re about it.”
“Isn’t two days rather a short invitation?” asked Jill.
“Bless you, no. You see, we’re not out of mourning. Besides, Mother Parker may be well again if we don’t look sharp, or Armstrong may turn up.”
“How I wish he would!”
“He’d spoil everything. Look here, Jill, look alive and write the cards. I’ll call out.”
The two spent a most industrious morning, so much so that the household marvelled at their goodness, and remarked to one another, “The children are no trouble at all.”
Towards the end of the sitting Tom flung down his paper with a whistle of dismay.
“I say, Jill, they ought to be black-edged!”