I went to the opera every night that week, as I had planned to do,
but the edge of my appetite was blunted, and, save in the case of
“Tannhäuser,” and of “Lohengrin,” I was disappointed. I had already
become more critical, and I now doubted if “Faust” were the admirable
work I had fancied it.
One evening there came a letter for me, and, when I opened the
envelope, I found inside a card which told me that Miss L. Gill and
Master E. Gill would be “at home” on Friday, the 23rd of December. My
own name was written at the top of the card. In the bottom left-hand
corner was the word “Dancing,” followed by the numerals 8–12; and in
the corner opposite were four mysterious letters――“R.S.V.P.”
I knew it to be an invitation to a party, but “R.S.V.P.” was puzzling.
Neither Uncle George nor Aunt Margaret could throw any light upon these
symbols, though Uncle George pondered over the card half the evening,
as if it had been a kind of magazine competition. Miss Izzy probably
would have known, but Miss Izzy had gone, and would not be back till
to-morrow morning, whereas I had a keen conviction that action should
be taken to-night.
“Who are they?” Uncle George asked, referring to the Gills.
“Mr. Gill is a solicitor. Owen Gill is in my classes at school.”
Uncle George examined the card anew, bringing this fresh light to bear
on it. He held it at arm’s length, and then put on his glasses and
peered at it through them. “Miss L. Gill and Master E. Gill,” he read
aloud slowly and solemnly.
I laughed. “They’re Owen’s young sister and brother,” I explained.
“A solicitor. I suppose he will have some letters after his name,” said
Uncle George, weakly.
“Oh, they’re not those,” I answered, impatiently. It seemed to me that
everybody was very stupid.
“R.S.V.P.” Uncle George threw out thoughtfully. He turned the card
round and examined the back.
“Reply soon: very pressing,” suggested George.
His father looked at him doubtfully, and laid the card on the table.
“It can’t be so pressing,” he said, glancing at the calendar, “when
it’s a fortnight off.”
“You see they have to make sure he’s coming before they ask anybody
else,” George explained. “Rippin’ spread: veal pie.”
“I suppose you think that funny,” I broke in; whereupon George, seeing
I was inclined to be cross, kept it up.
“Royal spree: von’t you partake? Refined soirée: veather permittin’.
That’s it, da, right enough; you can leave the card by.”
But Uncle George continued to regard it searchingly, glancing at me
every now and again over his spectacles.
Nothing was done that night, and in the morning, before school, I
approached Miss Izzy on the subject; though when I saw her examine the
card almost as carefully as the others had done, my faith in her sank.
“You’ll have to answer on a card,” said Miss Izzy, loftily, having at
any rate settled the first point, and waving aside the sheet of note
paper I held in my hand.
“I haven’t got one.”
“There’s a box of them in the shop somewhere. They’ve been there since
the dear knows when. Nobody ever asks for cards.” She hunted about in a
drawer under the counter, and at length succeeded in finding the box.
Without breaking the pink paper band that held the cards together she
carefully extracted one from the bundle. I took it and dipped my pen in
the ink and waited.
“Just answer it in the usual way,” said Miss Izzy, offhandedly, with
the air of one who dashes off at least half a dozen such communications
every day.
“I don’t know the usual way,” I confessed.
Miss Izzy aggravatingly paused to shake out a paper lamp-shade. Then
she attended to a little boy who came in to buy a “Deadwood Dick” tale.
“Tell me what to say,” I begged, humbly.
“Mr. Peter Waring,” dictated Miss Izzy, with much dignity; and I wrote
“Mr. Peter Waring,” in terror all the time of making a blot.
Miss Izzy glanced over my shoulder. “You’ve begun too high up,” she
said, reassuringly. Then, as I made a movement to tear the card, “Oh,
it’ll do.”
“Mr. Peter Waring begs to thank Miss L. Gill and Master E. Gill for
their very kind invitation.”
The shop-bell had rung again. It was the little boy back to change his
story for another he had discovered in the window, and which it took
Miss Izzy hours to extract. “Corduroy Charlie,” she murmured, as she
handed it across the counter. It was the title of the work.
“Yes?” I said, trying not to appear impatient.
Miss Izzy came back to my affairs. “Oh! what have you got?”
“Mr. Peter Waring begs to thank Miss L. Gill and Master E. Gill for
their very kind invitation――――”
“Invitation.... And will be very pleased to accept same for the date
mentioned.”
“Yes?”
“That’s all. Don’t be signing your name, stupid!”
I hastily checked myself.
“What do those letters in the corner mean?” I asked timidly. “I suppose
I oughtn’t to put them on mine?”
“Of course not. They’re French, and mean they want an answer.”
I read over what I had written and thanked Miss Izzy, but secretly I
was not satisfied. I felt sure there was something wrong somewhere. It
did not read well. I put it in an envelope, however, and posted it,
though immediately afterwards I became more unhappy about it than ever.
I made a mental note to ask Mrs. Carroll for information when I was at
home at Christmas.