Eleanor walks haughtily to the door and flings it open.
"If I talk any more I shall stifle," she cries.
Giddy gives a low laugh.
"You will agree with me when you get over your temper," she declares, passing out.
Eleanor sinks on her knees, and buries her head on Rover's shaggy coat. She is alone, and the faint sound of buried sobs throbs upon the silence of the room.
The dog licks her hand and whines. Slowly the folding doors push open, and the old couple stand upon the threshold.
Mr. Grebby's round face is pale, Mrs. Grebby's cheeks wet with fast falling tears.
"Oh! dearie, dearie," she cries, folding Eleanor in her arms. "We ought not to 'ave come, we didn't know. But she was right, dearie, and we will go away, and you shall have your party and your friends. Oh! we was wrong, all wrong."
"Don't talk like that," moans Eleanor, realising they have overheard. "She is a wicked snob—a—a—"
"There, dearie, be calm, don't fret."