This was gall and wormwood to the little girl.
On the fifth day of her visit, Mr Griffiths, who had received some letters, said to Nesta:
“You don’t seem to be hearing from your people—at least I have not seen any letters addressed to you. I hope they are all right.”
“Oh, of course they are, no news is good news,” said Nesta.
He took no notice of her remark, being absorbed in his own affairs. When he had read one of his letters he looked at his wife.
“I must go back to Newcastle this afternoon, but I’ll return to-morrow,” he said. “I’ll call in, if you like, Nesta, and find out how your mother is.”
“Oh, please don’t—I mean you really needn’t,” said Nesta.
He raised his brows in some surprise.
“I should think,” he said slowly, “that a girl who has an invalid mother, would like to know how she is.”
Nesta coloured. She did not dare to say any more. She and Flossie had been having what she called a ripping time, that is, Nesta could enjoy herself in spite of her anxiety. But now things were changing. The yellow-boy had his limits; he was reduced in bulk until he had come down to a few pence. Between Nesta and that which made her so valuable in Flossie’s eyes there was now but eleven-pence halfpenny. Nearly a shilling, a whole beautiful silver shilling, but not quite. When that was spent—and it would be spent that very day—Nesta would be of no special importance to Flossie Griffiths.