CHAPTER IX.
HEART SICK AND WEARY WITH THE JOURNEY'S FRET.
"You must not go to-day," declares Eleanor emphatically, addressing her parents. "I want to take you to Mrs. Mounteagle's party this afternoon. I am sure she won't mind, we are such great friends, and two more will make no difference in a tea and coffee, four-to-seven squash."
"Is it a real grand party?" asks Mrs. Grebby.
"Oh, yes; no end of people have been invited, and Giddy's affairs are always so chic—that meaning stylish, smart—all sorts of grand dresses and bonnets."
Mrs. Grebby gasps in wonderment. "I will lend you two jewelled pins for your head gear, Ma—one of turquoise and another in the shape of an olive—that Philip bought abroad, and declares is only paste."
"Well, we shall be swells," says Mr. Grebby, grinning, "and my word, what a lot we'll have to talk about when we gets 'ome."
"There," says Eleanor, shutting down an envelope and ringing for Sarah, "I have written the note to Giddy."
She whistles Rover through the window, who is scratching up the lawn, with splendid energy.
He bounds in and leaps on the sofa. Eleanor proceeds to scratch his back comfortingly with a little ivory hand on the end of a long horn stick. Then she calls for a comb, which Sarah produces, and fluffs at his coarse hair, which is stiff, wiry, and grey.