Flossie was making friends, too, on her own account. There was a family of young people also staying at Scarborough, whom the Griffiths used to know. They boasted of the name of Brown. They were all good-natured, hearty, friendly young folks. But in the beginning Nesta had chosen to turn up her nose at them. In consequence they devoted themselves to Flossie, and left Nesta very much out in the cold.
On the very day that Nesta was forced to spend her last pence on a feast for Flossie, Flossie calmly informed her that she was going early the next morning on a picnic with the Browns.
“They haven’t invited you—I’m sorry,” said Flossie. “They might have done it, but I said you were going away. This is Friday, you know. You will have been with us a week to-morrow. I know father and mother will want you to stay until the middle of next week, at any rate, but, of course, you and I—knowing what we do—” Flossie giggled—“thought you would be gone long ago.”
“Well, I’m here,” said Nesta, “and I wish I weren’t.”
“Why do you say that? I’m sure we have done all we could to give you a real good time.”
“I think you hate me,” said Nesta, in a passion.
“Well, Nesta, I do call that ungrateful! But there, you’re in the sulks, poor old girl. You thought you’d be awfully missed at home, and you see you are not one little bit.”
“I’m anxious about mother,” said Nesta. “It’s so queer none of them writing.”
She burst into tears. Flossie was soft-hearted enough, and she comforted her friend, and said that she would not hurt her for the world, and would do her very best to get her an invitation to the picnic the next day. At this intimation Nesta immediately wiped her eyes.
“I’d like it,” she said; “it would be horrid to be left at home with only your old mother.”