We have
erected a splendid--"
"No, thank you, Mr. Wrandall," she interrupted gently. "I shall
not go to the cemetery."
Leslie intervened. "You understand, don't you, father?" he said,
rather out of patience.
The old gentleman lowered his head. "Yes, yes," he hastened to
say. "Quite so, quite so. Then we may expect you at eight, Sara,
and you, Miss Castleton. Mrs, Wrandall is looking forward to seeing
you again. It isn't often she takes a liking to--ahem! I beg your
pardon, Leslie?"
"I was just going to suggest that we move along, dad. I fancy you
want to get at your trunks, Sara. Smuggled a few things through,
eh? Women never miss a chance to get a couple of dozen dresses
through, as you'll discover if you become a real American, Miss
Castleton. It's in the blood."
Mr. Wrandall fell into another trap. "Now please remember that we
are to dine very informally," he hastened to say, his mind on the
smuggled gowns. It was his experience that gowns that escaped duty
invariably were "creations."
Leslie got him away.
As soon as they were alone, Hetty turned to her friend.
"Oh, Sara, can't you go without me? Tell them that I am ill--suddenly
ill. I--I don't think it right or honourable of me to accept--"
Sara shook her head, and the words died on the girl's lips.
"You must play the game, Hetty.
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