My eldest sister burst upon me with a letter in her hand: "Here, Tommy, is an invitation for you," she cried.
My name is Charlotte; but I am generally called Tommy by my unappreciative family, who mendaciously declare it is derived from the expression "tom-boy."
"Oh, bother invitations," was my polite answer. "I don't want to go anywhere. Why, it's a letter from Mysie Sutherland! How came you to open it?"
"If she will address it to Miss Cornwall, of course I shall open it. I've read it, too—it's very nice for you."
"Awfully jolly," put in Dick, who had followed my sister Lucy into the room.
"Oh, I don't want to go a bit."
"Well, then, you'll just have to. It's disgraceful of you, Tom; why, you may never get such a chance again. You'll meet lots of people in a big country house like that, and perhaps—who knows?—marry a rich Scotchman."
"I declare, Lucy, you are quite disgusting with your perpetual talk about marrying! Why, I shan't have the time to get fond of anyone!"
"You're asked for a month; and if that isn't time enough, I don't know what is."
"Time enough to be married and divorced again," cried Dick.