"Best plan," nodded the farmer. And the subject, thus indistinctly hinted at, was allowed to drop, owing probably to the presence of Mrs. Ryle. "The Chattaways are coming here to-night," suddenly exclaimed Caroline Ryle. She spoke only to Mary Apperley, but there was a pause in the general conversation just then, and Mr. Apperley took it up. "Who's coming? The Chattaways! Which of the Chattaways?" he said in some surprise, knowing they had never been in the habit of paying evening visits to Trevlyn Farm. "All the girls, and Maude. I don't know whether Rupert will come; and I don't think Cris was asked." "Eh, but that's a new move," cried Farmer Apperley, his long intimacy with the Farm justifying the freedom. "Did you invite them?" "In point of fact, they invited themselves," interposed Mrs. Ryle, before George, to whom the question had been addressed, could speak. "At least, Octave did so: and then George, I believe, asked the rest of the girls." "They won't come," said Farmer Apperley. "Not come!" interrupted Nora, sharply, who kept going in and out between the two rooms. "That's all you know about it, Mr. Apperley. Octave Chattaway is sure to be here to-night----" "Nora!" The interruption came from George. Was he afraid of what she might say impulsively? Or did he see, coming in at the outer door, Octave herself, as though to refute the opinion of Mr. Apperley? But only Amelia was with her. A tall girl with a large mouth and very light hair, always on the giggle. "Where are the rest?" impulsively asked George, his accent too unguarded to conceal its disappointment. Octave detected it. She had thrown off her cloak and stood in attire scarcely suited to the occasion--a pale blue evening dress of damask, a silver necklace, silver bracelets, and a wreath of silver flowers in her hair. "What 'rest'?" asked Octave. "Your sisters and Maude. They promised to come." Octave tossed her head good-humouredly. "_Do_ you think we could inflict the whole string on Mrs. Ryle? Two of us are sufficient to represent the family." "Inflict! On a harvest-home night!" called out Trevlyn. "You know, Octave, the more the merrier on these occasions." "Why, I really believe that's Treve!" exclaimed Octave. "When did you arrive?" "This morning. You have grown thinner, Octave." "It is nothing to you if I have," retorted Octave, offended at the remark. The point was a sore one; Octave being unpleasantly conscious that she was thin to plainness. "_You_ have grown plump enough, at any rate." "To be sure," said Treve. "I'm always jolly. It was too bad of you, Octave, not to bring the rest." "So it was," said Amelia. "They had dressed for it, and at the last moment Octave made them stay at home."