Uncle Ga-Ga laid his hand upon his heart, and made a courtly bow.
"Ladies," he announced, "you overwhelm me! But before I accede to your most hospitable invitation, pray read this: it may affect your immediate plans. I found it lying thrust under your outer door."
He proffered an orange-coloured envelope. It was addressed to Marjorie.
Telegrams in war-time take tense priority over everything else. Marjorie seized the envelope, ripped open the flap with one feverish movement, took out the message, and carried it to the window to read. Then, very deliberately, for the first and only time in her life, she slid down upon the floor, with her head on the window-seat, in a dead faint."
"Oh, God!" cried Liss, running to her—"it must be something about Roy!"
They carried her to the sofa, and laid her down. Her eyes were closed, but began to flutter again almost immediately.
"The telegram—should we read it? Would it be right?" asked Uncle Ga-Ga.
"Oh, yes!" said Liss: "I'd forgotten about it." She turned back Marjorie's closed fingers, extracted the crumpled message, and smoothed it out. Then she gave a little sudden chuckling sob.
"Listen!" she said; and read the message aloud....
"Sent off from Folkestone," she added breathlessly, "at four-forty. What time is it now?"