Austin’s face lengthened.  “Oh, why?” he sighed.  “It isn’t as though there was anybody worth asking—­and really, the horrid creatures that infest this neighbourhood—.  Whom do you want to ask?”

“I’m astonished at you, speaking of our friends like that,” replied his aunt, severely.  “They’re not horrid creatures; they’re all very nice and kind.  Of course we must have the MacTavishes——­”

“I knew it,” groaned Austin, sinking into a chair.  “Those dear MacTavishes!  There are nineteen of them, aren’t there?  Or is it only nine?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Austin,” said Aunt Charlotte.  “Then there are the Miss Minchins—­that’ll be eleven; the vicar and his wife, of course; and old Mr and Mrs Cobbledick.  Now just come and sit here——­”

“The Cobbledicks—­those old murderers!” cried Austin.  “Do you want us to be all assassinated together?”

“Murderers!” exclaimed Aunt Charlotte, horrified.  “I think you’ve gone out of your mind.  A dear kindly old couple like the Cobbledicks!  Not very handsome, perhaps, but—­murderers!  What in the world will you say next?”

“The most sinister-looking old pair of cut-throats in the parish,” returned Austin.  “I should be sorry to meet them on a lonely road on a dark night, I know that.  But really, auntie, I do wish you’d think better of all this.  We’re quite happy alone; what do we want of all these horrible people coming to bore us for Heaven knows how many hours?  Of course I shall be told off to amuse the MacTavishes; just think of it!  Seven red-haired, screaming, giggling monsters——­”

“Hold your tongue, do, you abominable boy!” cried Aunt Charlotte.  “I’m inviting our friends for my pleasure, not for yours, and I forbid you to speak of them in that wicked, slanderous, disrespectful way.  Come now, sit down here and write me the invitations at once.”

“For the last time, auntie, I entreat you——­” began Austin.

“Not a word more!” replied his aunt.  “Begin without more ado.”

“Well, if you insist,” consented Austin, as he dragged himself into the seat.  “Have you fixed upon a day?”

“No—­any day will do.  Just choose one yourself,” said Aunt Charlotte, as she dived after an errant ball of worsted.  “What day will suit you best?”

“Shall we say the 24th?” suggested Austin.

“By all means,” replied his aunt briskly.  “If you’re sure that that won’t interfere with anything else.  I’ve such a wretched memory for dates.  To-day is the 19th.  Yes, I should say the 24th will do very well indeed.”

“It will suit me admirably,” said Austin, sitting down and beginning to write with great alacrity, while his aunt busied herself with her knitting.  As soon as the envelopes were addressed, he slipped them into his coat pocket, and, rising, said he might as well go out and post them there and then.

“Do,” said Aunt Charlotte, well pleased at Austin’s sudden capitulation.  “That is, unless you’re too tired with your walk.  Martha can always give them to the milkman if you are.”