When the picnic was over, Olive had quite a large escort to accompany her home, all relating in loud and cheerful voices the various disabilities and disfigurements that had sooner or later overtaken them in the pursuit of athletic enjoyment.
“It’s part of the fun,” declared Olive herself. “I only hope the mater won’t turn green at the sight of me. She’s a bit squeamish sometimes.”
“Hold your hand in front of your mouth.”
“Keep your back to the light all you can.”
But it became evident that none of these precautions would avail when Mrs. Senthoven was seen leaning over the gate, gazing down the road.
She waved a yellow envelope at them.
“Tellywag!” exclaimed Beatrice. “What on earth can it be?”
Telegrams were so rare in the Wimbledon establishment as to be looked upon with alarm.
She and Olive both began to run.
“It’s addressed to you, Lydia,” screamed Beatrice. “Come and open it. Come on, you people.”