what ours can be that there might be a danger of that, though I don't think they would do it consciously."
"Oh, no; they're much too nice for that. Still, of course, I should hate to feel that I was poking myself in. Don't you think I might go to tea this afternoon, Mother? Caroline did ask me, you know, and I'm sure she meant it."
Mollie had been to church alone that morning, and the Grafton girls had taken her round the garden of the Abbey afterwards.
"I don't know what to say," said Mrs. Walter, hesitatingly. "I can't help wishing you had waited for the Vicar and Mrs. Mercer afterwards, and walked back with them, as we generally do."
"It would have been so difficult to refuse. They introduced me to Beatrix and to Mr. Grafton, and they were all so nice, and seemed to take it for granted that I should go with them. I thought perhaps the Vicar and Mrs. Mercer would have come over too. He likes them so much, and says they make him feel so at home there. He has helped them a lot getting into order."
"He is one of those men who likes to help everybody," said Mrs. Walter. "Nobody could possibly have been kinder to us than he has been, from the beginning. We are very fortunate indeed to have found such a nice clergyman here. It might have been so different. We must be especially careful not to give him the slightest reason to think that he doesn't come first with us."
"Oh, of course, he and Mrs. Mercer would always be our chief friends here. But you see, Mother dear, I've had so few girl friends, and I think these really might be. I love than all, especially Beatrix. She's sweet, and I believe she'd like to be friends. When I said I must ask you first, she said you couldn't possibly object, and I must come."
"Well, dear, of course, you could, in the ordinary way. But you know we nearly always go to tea at the Vicarage on Sunday afternoons. If you had walked home with them they would have been sure to ask you. I expect the Vicar will, at Sunday-school this afternoon. Wouldn't it look ungracious if you said you were going somewhere else?"
Poor Mollie could not deny that it might, but looked so downcast that her mother suggested waiting to see if the Vicar did ask her, but without suggesting that she should accept the invitation if he did.
Mollie was a good girl, and had the reward which does not always attend goodness. She made up her mind that it would not be right to forsake old friends for new ones, that she would walk back with the Vicar after Sunday-school as usual, and if by some fortunate chance he omitted to ask her and her mother to tea she would then go to the Abbey.
The Vicar came out as she passed his house with his Bible in his hand. "Well, Mollie," he said. "What became of you after church this morning? I hope your mother isn't unwell."
"She didn't sleep well last night, and I made her stay in bed," said Mollie. "But she's up now."
She expected that the Vicar's invitation would then be forthcoming, but he said nothing.
She waited for him after school as he liked her to do, but as he came out he said: "Well, I suppose you're going home now, dear." He had dropped into the way of calling her dear within a short time of their arrival, and she liked it. She had never known her own father, nor any man who used protecting or affectionate speech towards her. "I must wait for Mrs. Mercer. We are going to the Abbey together."
Mollie was vastly relieved. "Oh, then, perhaps we can go together," she said. "They asked me this morning."
He did not look so pleased as she had thought he would, for he had always shown himself ready for her company, wherever it might be, and had told her more than once that he didn't know what he had done for company before she came. "They asked you, did they?" he said. "Didn't they ask your mother too?"
"No. I went over with them after church. It was the girls who asked me."
"Did they ask you to go over with them after church?"
"Oh, yes. I shouldn't have gone without an invitation. I remembered what you had said."
"But I hope you didn't hang about as if you were looking for one. You know, Mollie, you must be very careful about that sort of thing. If these girls turn out to be thoroughly nice, as I quite hope they will, it will be nice for you to go to the Abbey sometimes. It will make a change in your life. But you see you haven't mixed with that sort of people before, and I am very anxious that you shan't make mistakes. I would rather you went there first with me—or Mrs. Mercer."
Mollie felt some offence at it being supposed possible that she should hang about for an invitation. But she knew that men were like that—clumsy in their methods of expression; they meant nothing by it. And it was kind of him to take this interest in her behalf.
"Thank you," she said. "Of course I should be careful not to go unless they really wanted me. But I'm sure they did by the way they asked me. If you and Mrs. Mercer are going too that will be all the better."
"Ought you to leave your mother alone?" he asked. "I quite thought you had hurried back to her this morning. If she isn't well, it was a little thoughtless, wasn't it, Mollie, to stay behind like that? She might have been worrying herself as to what had become of you."
"Oh, no," she said artlessly. "She would have thought I was with you. I have once or twice been to the Vicarage after church when she has stayed at home. And she didn't mind my going this afternoon a bit."
Mrs. Mercer was seen bearing down upon them. "Oh well," he said, not very graciously, "I suppose you had better come. But you mustn't let the attentions of the girls at the Abbey turn your head, Mollie; and above all you mustn't get into the way of leaving your mother to be with them. They have asked Mollie to tea," he said as his wife came up. "So we can all go together."
"Oh, I'm so glad," said Mrs. Mercer. "I thought you might wonder, dear, why we hadn't asked you and Mrs. Walter to the Vicarage this afternoon. But you see, Mr. Grafton is only here on Saturdays and Sundays, and the Vicar has a good many things to talk over with him; so we thought we'd invite ourselves to tea there—at least, go there, rather early, and if they like to ask us to stay to tea, well they can."
"Really, my dear!" expostulated the Vicar, "you put things in a funny way. It's no more for people like ourselves to drop in at a house like the Abbey and ask for a cup of tea than to go to Mrs. Walter, for instance."
"No, dear, of course not," said Mrs. Mercer soothingly.
They went into the park through the hand gate, and when they had got a little way along the path an open motor-car passed them a little way off on the road. It was driven by a girl in a big tweed coat, and another girl similarly attired sat by her. Behind were an old lady and gentleman much befurred, and a third girl on the back seat.
"The Pembertons!" said the Vicar in a tone of extreme annoyance. "Now what on earth do they want over here? They can't surely be coming to pay their first call on a Sunday, and I'm sure they haven't called already or I should have heard of it."
"Perhaps they are just going through the park," said Mrs. Mercer, which suggestion her husband accepted until they came in sight of the house and saw the empty car standing before it.
"Just like them to pay a formal call on a Sunday!" he said. "I'm very annoyed that this should have happened. I was going to give Grafton a warning about those people. They're not the sort of girls for his girls to know—loud and slangy and horsey! I abhor that sort of young woman. However, I suppose we shall have to be polite to them now they're here. But I don't want you to have anything to do with them, Mollie. I should keep in the background if I were you, as much as possible. And I dare say they won't stay very long."
They were taken up to the long gallery, which seemed to be full of talk as they entered it. It was a chilly windy day, and the two girls stood in front of one of the fires, of which there were two burning, while old Mr. and Mrs. Pemberton were sitting by the other. All four of them were talking at once, in loud clear voices, and there were also present, besides the Grafton family and Worthing, two young men, one of whom was talking louder than anybody.
The entrance of the Vicar had the effect of stopping the flow for a moment, but it was resumed