While she was dressing her maid brought her a telegram. It might be about her new dress, or Lady Blake’s picnic, or the concert at which she was to play.
This was what she read:—
“Your father accidentally shot. Dying.
Come.
“Stevens.”
Stevens was a friend who had joined her father.
Launa looked at it; dying—not dead. She drank her tea. It was, it must be some detestable, horrible dream.
By twelve o’clock her boxes were packed; and Launa and her maid started on their long, almost useless, journey. To sit still and wait was impossible, it was like watching for someone who never came. The train tore along, and the trees seemed to wave their branches like hungry, relentless demons, as if they would clutch all men; the sea was cruel, and the steamer outrageously slow.
And Launa was too late.