“The tea, Martha.”
The little lady folded her hands.
Florence could see that June was tense with emotion. She herself was greatly excited. Not so the little old lady. She did everything, said everything in the spirit of absolute repose and peace.
“And why not?” the girl asked herself. “What’s the good of all this jumping about like a grasshopper, screaming like a seagull, and living all the time as if you were racing to a fire? Peace—that’s the thing to seek, peace and repose.”
“Ah, here is the tea.” The little lady’s eyes shone. “Do you have sugar or lemon? Lemon? Ah, yes. And you? Lemon also. That makes us three.
“And now—” she sipped the tea as if she were about to say, “I had muffins for breakfast. What did you have?”
What she did say was, “I heard from your father, my dear. It was only the day before yesterday. Oh, not by mail, nor by wire. Not even by radio. He is rather far away and, for the moment, shut off. But I heard. Oh, yes, my dear, I heard—” she smiled a roguish smile.
June was staring, eyes wide, ears straining, taking in every expression, drinking in every word.
“He has been out of my circle of influence for a long, long time,” said the little lady. “But now he is not so far. It is an island—that’s where he is.”
“Wha—what island?” June’s tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.