“It’s no go,” she said. “You must stay with mother—or—or do anything you like. Ah, there’s father—he’s off. Good-bye, Dad.”
Flossie’s voice sounded on the summer breeze. Mr Griffiths looked up and kissed his hand to her.
“Good-bye to you both,” he said. “I’ll be back to-morrow, and if I can, Nesta, I’ll look in and see how your mother is getting on. Are you sure you have no message?”
“None; please, don’t trouble,” said Nesta.
She was feeling now most frantically wretched. That last feast with Flossie was scarcely a success. She did not know how she was to live through the next day. If she had money enough she would return home. She would boldly declare that she had a right to her own home, the home that no longer seemed to want her. There was no telegram that day—no letter, no message of any sort.
The next morning rose bright and glorious. Flossie, dressed in her very best, went off for the picnic with the Browns. They had two waggonettes packed full of people, and Flossie squeezed herself in amid peals of laughter. Nesta watched her from behind the curtain of the drawing room window; Mrs Griffiths was well to the front, bowing and smiling, and kissing her hand.
“There,” she said, when the waggonettes passed out of sight, “I’m glad my Floss is going to have a good time. Sorry for you, Nesta, but then you gave us to understand that you’d be sent for so soon.”
“I thought so,” said Nesta.
“Well, dear, it’s all the better for you, you have the advantage of the sea. You must put up with an old woman for once. I’m going for a dip in the briny this morning. What do you say to coming with me?”
Nesta acquiesced. She might as well do that as anything else. She didn’t care about it, of course.