Mrs Griffiths was energetic when she was at the seaside, and she took her dip and then a long walk, and then she waded for a time, and Nesta had to wade with her. They were both tired when they returned to the house in the middle of the day.
And now, at last, there was a telegram. It lay on the table in its little yellow envelope. Nesta felt suddenly sick and faint. Mrs Griffiths took it up.
“It’s for me,” she said. “It’s to say that my man is coming back this evening—or maybe not until to-morrow, or Monday.”
She read the telegram. Nesta watched her with parted lips, as Mrs Griffiths slowly acquainted herself with the contents. She was a quick, energetic woman, but as regarded matters relating to the mind she slow. The telegram puzzled her.
“It’s queer,” she said. “Can you make anything of it?”
She handed it to Nesta. Nesta road the contents.
”‘Coming back sooner than I expected. Have been to the Aldworths’—a very queer business; will tell you when we meet.’”
“I wonder if your mother is worse,” said Mrs Griffiths, looking with her kind eyes at the girl. “Why, Nesta, you are as white as a sheet! Is anything wrong?”
“No,” said Nesta. She let the telegram flutter to the floor; it was Mrs Griffiths who picked it up. Nemesis had come—Nemesis with a vengeance.
“I don’t expect it is anything. Your father—I mean Flossie’s father, is always fond of making mountains out of molehills. It is nothing special, it really isn’t; you may be sure on that point,” said the good woman. “Anyhow, he will tell us when he comes, and not all the guessing in the world will spoil our appetites, will it, Nesta? See this pigeon pie, the very best that could be got; I ordered it from the pastrycook’s, for I don’t much like some of our landlady’s cooking.”