“You can go, Grace.”
“Yes, ’m. Shall I just run out to the shore and see if Miss Diana is coming?”
“Yes. And tell her to make haste back—I want her to do some shopping in the village for me.”
Grace left the room, closing the door behind her. A clock on the mantelpiece gave several little sharp ting-tings.
“What time is that?” asked Mrs. May.
“Ten o’clock,” replied her husband, unfolding the day’s newspaper and beginning to read.
“Dear me! How very extraordinary of Diana to be out from six in the morning till now!” And with the aid of a spoon she carefully lifted the egg she had been watching as though it were the most precious object in life out of the boiling water, in mournful doubt as to whether, after all, it really was done perfectly. “It’s so unlike her.”
“Well, you may be pretty certain no one has run away with her,” said Mr. May, ironically. “She’s safe enough. The ‘dear child’ has not eloped!”
Mrs. May ignored both his words and his manner. She looked at him meditatively over the lid of the silver teapot and permitted herself to smile,—a small, fat, pursy smile.
“Those white flannels have got rather tight for you, haven’t they?” she suggested.