‘Alfred’ was Mr Crowell, the young merchant to whom she was engaged.
‘Yes, we ought to ask them,’ observed Caroline, with a suggestion in voice and look that she would not be sorry if something should prevent them from accepting.
‘Then we must ask old Dr Guy—he is such a friend of Philip’s; and if we ask him, I don’t see how we can avoid sending cards to Fanny and her stupid husband.’
Dr Guy was the oldest medical man of the Kingshope district: Fanny was his daughter, married to his partner, Dr Edwin Joy.
‘I have it!’ cried Bertha, clapping her hands with glee at the notion that she had solved the problem: ‘we’ll go and find out the evenings that the people we don’t want are engaged, and invite them for those very evenings.’
‘Foolish child,’ said the eldest sister majestically; ‘they would not be all engaged for the same evening, and our date is fixed.’
‘Oh!—I did not think of that,’ rejoined Bertha, crestfallen.
‘How many have we got, Caroline?’
Caroline was believed to have a head for figures; and being glad to be credited with a head for anything, she endeavoured to sustain the character by making prompt guesses at totals which were generally found to be wrong. Nevertheless, the promptitude of her replies and an occasional lucky hit sufficed to keep up the delusion as to her special faculty. She was lucky this time, for she had been reckoning them all the time.
‘Ten; and the vicar will make eleven.’