"That means she has asked Tom Motherwell," Peter explained.
Then Mrs. Slater told them to hurry along with their
supper for the people would soon be coming.
It was Mrs. Slater who had planned the party. Mrs. Slater
was the leading spirit in everything in the household
that required dash and daring. Hers was the dominant
voice, though nothing louder than a whisper had been
heard from her for years. She laughed in a whisper, she
cried in a whisper. Yet in some way her laugh was
contagious, and her tears brought comfort to those with
whom she wept.
When she proposed the party the girls foresaw difficulties.
The house was small--there were so many to ask--it was
a busy time.
Mrs. Slater stood firm.
"Ask everybody," she whispered. "Nobody minds being
crowded at a party. I was at a party once where we had
to go outside to turn around, the house was so small.
I'll never forget what a good time we had."
Mr. Slater was dressed and ready for anything long before
the time had come for the guests to arrive. An hour before
he had sat down resignedly and said, "Come, girls, do as
you think best with the old man, scrub him, polish him,
powder him, blacken his eyebrows, do not spare him, he's
yours," and the girls had laughingly accepted the privilege.
George, whose duty it was to attend to the lamps for the
occasion, came in with a worried look, on his usually
placid face.
"The aristocratic parlour-lamp is indisposed," he said.
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