This was all smooth enough sailing; but they had to haul in their colours at the first attempt to make up the list of guests for the dinner. They were limited to twelve or fourteen; and there were so many of those asked to the second part of the programme, who would feel slighted and offended on hearing that they had been passed over in the first part, that the girls were appalled by the difficulty of arranging matters so as to cause the least possible amount of heart-burning. It was not as if this were an ordinary gathering: the degree of friendship would be distinctly marked by the line drawn between those who were invited to the dinner and those who were not. Their father had only mentioned Mr Wrentham and the Crawshays: he left his daughters to select the other guests. Miss Hadleigh had a vague sensation that she wished she had not been so ready to call everybody her ‘Dearest friend.’ That rendered her position decidedly more awkward than it would have been otherwise. ‘Of course we must have Alfred,’ she said decisively, as if relieved to have settled one part of the difficulty. ‘Of course we _must_ have him,’ chimed her sisters. ‘And ... we ought to have his people,’ she added meditatively; ‘they are—in a sort of way—connections of the Family.’ ‘Alfred’ was Mr Crowell, the young merchant to whom she was engaged. ‘Yes, we ought to ask them,’ observed Caroline, with a suggestion in voice and look that she would not be sorry if something should prevent them from accepting. ‘Then we must ask old Dr Guy—he is such a friend of Philip’s; and if we ask him, I don’t see how we can avoid sending cards to Fanny and her stupid husband.’ Dr Guy was the oldest medical man of the Kingshope district: Fanny was his daughter, married to his partner, Dr Edwin Joy. ‘I have it!’ cried Bertha, clapping her hands with glee at the notion that she had solved the problem: ‘we’ll go and find out the evenings that the people we don’t want are engaged, and invite them for those very evenings.’ ‘Foolish child,’ said the eldest sister majestically; ‘they would not be all engaged for the same evening, and our date is fixed.’ ‘Oh!—I did not think of that,’ rejoined Bertha, crestfallen. ‘How many have we got, Caroline?’ Caroline was believed to have a head for figures; and being glad to be credited with a head for anything, she endeavoured to sustain the character by making prompt guesses at totals which were generally found to be wrong. Nevertheless, the promptitude of her replies and an occasional lucky hit sufficed to keep up the delusion as to her special faculty. She was lucky this time, for she had been reckoning them all the time. ‘Ten; and the vicar will make eleven.’ ‘Ah, yes—I had almost forgotten the dear old vicar. Thank you, Caroline. That leaves us with only three places; and I suppose Philip and Coutts will want to have some of their friends at dinner.’