Part 38 (1/2)

”Because----That is quite another thing altogether. I mean----I----it seems to me----No matter _what_ it seems now; we can't discuss it,” says Miss Priscilla, making a desperate effort to catch the horns of her dilemma and to escape from it.

”Let us discuss our party instead,” says Kit, cheerfully, who is really of the greatest use at times. ”When is it to be, Aunt Pris?”

”Next week, I suppose,” says Miss Penelope, promptly, seeing that Miss Priscilla is still too agitated to reply. ”And I think it would be rather nice to have tea in the orchard.”

”Oh! how quite too lovely!” says Kit, clasping her hands.

”Quite too utterly consummately, preciously intense?” mutters Terence, _sotto voce_, regarding Kit sideways, who returns his rapturous glance with one full of ineffable disdain.

”I hope Michael won't object,” says Miss Penelope, nervously. Michael is the gardener, and they are all, without exception, afraid of him.

”Nonsense, my dear! why should he?” says Miss Priscilla. ”It isn't because he has been here for years that he is to forbid us the use of our own grounds, and of late I consider there is great fault to be found with him. Long service should not generate neglect, and of late there has not been a good lettuce or a respectable dish of asparagus in the garden.”

”There wasn't even any thyme last week,” says Kit, who maintains an undying feud with Michael. ”He had to get some fresh plants from Cahirmore.”

”Time was made for slaves,” says Terence, meditatively. ”_You_ aren't a slave, are you?”

”I should hope not,” says Kit, icily.

”Then you can't want time: so don't worry that poor old man in the garden about it. He hasn't a scythe, or a bald head, or a dismal forelock: so he _can't_ know anything about it.”

”You are so clever,” says the younger Miss Beresford, with unmixed scorn, ”that I wonder something dreadful doesn't happen to you.”

”So do I,” says Terence.

”Well, auntie, and whom shall we ask to meet these men of war?” says Kit, ignoring him,--publicly, to his great delight.

”I suppose Madam O'Connor and all her party, and the Frenches, and Lord Rossmoyne,--who I hear is still in the country,--and----Penelope, my dear, will you sit down and write the invitations now for Friday next, as I must get ready to go to the coast-guard station? That girl of Mitson's is ill, and wants to see me.”

Monica rising at this moment to leave the room, Kit follows her.

”It is really _too_ amazing,” she says, when they find themselves in the hall. ”To think of their blossoming into a real live party! I feel quite overcome.”

”So do I,” says Monica, laughing.

”There is only one drawback to it,” says Kit, softly: ”I am _so_ sorry Brian can't be asked.”

Monica flushes furiously, and swerves away from her somewhat impatiently; but reply she makes none.

”There are cobwebs in my brain,” says Kit, raising her hands languidly to her head, with the oppressed air of one who is bravely struggling with a bad headache. ”I think I shall go for a walk to Biddy Daly's to try and rout them. I promised her old mother a pudding the last day I was there, and to-day cook has it ready for me. Will you come with me, Monica? _Do._”

”Not to-day, I think,” says Monica, lazily.

”I wish you would! I do so _hate_ going anywhere by myself. And, somehow, I am half afraid to go alone to-day, I feel--so--so faint.

However,” with a resigned sigh, ”never mind; I dare say if I _do_ drop in a deadly swoon, somebody will pick me up.”

”My dear Kit, if you feel like that, don't go,” says Monica, naturally alarmed.