Just at that moment a voice sounded on her ears, and looking round she saw Flossie Griffiths.
“Stop! stop! Pen! Do stop!” called out Flossie. Pen did not like being called by her Christian name by Flossie Griffiths; still less did she wish to have anything to do with that young lady, but she did not well know how to get rid of her. She accordingly desired the man to draw up the little carriage at the kerbstone, whereupon Flossie said eagerly:
“Oh, you are the very person—you are driving past the Aldworths’, aren’t you?”
“Yes; have you a message for them?”
“I want to go with you. I want to see Nesta in a very great hurry. It is most important.”
“All right, if you must,” said Pen not too cordially. Flossie’s nature was far too blunt to be easily repressed. She jumped into the carriage and sat down, leaning back and feeling herself very important.
“It must be nice to be rich,” she said. “I do envy folks with lots of money. I wish my father had made his pile the same as yours has. Oh, isn’t it good to lie back against these soft cushions, instead of tramping and tramping on the hard road? Well, I’m going to have a jolly time at Scarborough. Are you going to the seaside, too?”
“Yes,” said Pen, “we are going to Whitby.”
“I’d much rather go to Scarborough; I went to Whitby once; it isn’t half as jolly.”
“Well, I like Whitby,” said Pen, absolutely indifferent.