“I have brought Mr Horace Aldworth back with me, wife. Did you receive my telegram?”
“I did, dear. You will be wanting a bit of supper. How do you do, Mr Aldworth? I hope your poor mother is easier—suffering less, getting stronger by degrees.”
Horace bowed and murmured something in reply, and took a seat with his back to the light. Griffiths strutted over to the hearthrug, put his hands behind him, swelled out,—as Mrs Griffiths afterwards expressed it,—looked as red as a turkey-cock, and demanded the presence of the two girls.
“The girls,” said Mrs Griffiths—“they are out.”
Her first impulse was to hide the fact that she had lent Nesta money; but second thoughts rejected this. Griffiths would worm it out of her. Griffiths could get any secret out of her—he was terrible when he reached his turkey-cock stage.
“The girls,” she said timidly, “they’re not in.”
“Neither of them?”
“Neither of them.”
“Then where in the name of all that is good are they?” thundered the angry man.
“Flossie is away on a picnic with the Browns.”