Nesta could have enjoyed that pigeon pie, but the telegram, Nemesis, in short, had crushed what appetite she possessed out of her. She fiddled with her food, then sprang up.
“I am so anxious,” she said.
“Why, what is it, child?”
Mrs Griffiths looked at her; Nesta looked full at Mrs Griffiths.
“I must tell you something; I know you will hate me; I know you will, but if you would be kind just for once—”
“Goodness me, child! Of course I’ll be kind. What is troubling you? Anything wrong with the mother?”
“It isn’t that—it is that when I came with you I ran away.”
“You did what?” said Mrs Griffiths.
Nesta mumbled out her miserable story. She told it dismally. Mrs Griffiths had, as she averred afterwards, to drag the words from the child. At last the ugly facts were made plain to her. Nesta had deliberately left her home without saying one word to anybody. She had been aided and abetted by Flossie, Mrs Griffiths’ good, honourable, open-hearted Flossie—at least that is what Mrs Griffiths had considered her child. Yes, Flossie had helped her friend, and her friend had gone; she had not said a word to any one at home; she had only sent off a telegram. The telegram, of course, must bear the Scarborough mark, but they had taken no notice.
“Of course, Mr Griffiths went to see them, and of course they told him, and of course—of course, he will be just mad,” said Mrs Griffiths. “He will be in a towering rage; I don’t know what he won’t do. There’ll be a split between us; he’ll never let our Flossie speak to you again, that’s plain.”