The next morning rose bright and glorious. Flossie, dressed in her _very_ best, went off for the picnic with the Browns. They had two waggonettes packed full of people, and Flossie squeezed herself in amid peals of laughter. Nesta watched her from behind the curtain of the drawing room window; Mrs Griffiths was well to the front, bowing and smiling, and kissing her hand. "There," she said, when the waggonettes passed out of sight, "I'm glad my Floss is going to have a good time. Sorry for you, Nesta, but then you gave us to understand that you'd be sent for so soon." "I thought so," said Nesta. "Well, dear, it's all the better for you, you have the advantage of the sea. You must put up with an old woman for once. I'm going for a dip in the briny this morning. What do you say to coming with me?" Nesta acquiesced. She might as well do that as anything else. She didn't care about it, of course. Mrs Griffiths was energetic when she was at the seaside, and she took her dip and then a long walk, and then she waded for a time, and Nesta had to wade with her. They were both tired when they returned to the house in the middle of the day. And now, at last, there was a telegram. It lay on the table in its little yellow envelope. Nesta felt suddenly sick and faint. Mrs Griffiths took it up. "It's for me," she said. "It's to say that my man is coming back this evening--or maybe not until to-morrow, or Monday." She read the telegram. Nesta watched her with parted lips, as Mrs Griffiths slowly acquainted herself with the contents. She was a quick, energetic woman, but as regarded matters relating to the mind she slow. The telegram puzzled her. "It's queer," she said. "Can you make anything of it?" She handed it to Nesta. Nesta road the contents. "`Coming back sooner than I expected. Have been to the Aldworths'--a very queer business; will tell you when we meet.'" "I wonder if your mother is worse," said Mrs Griffiths, looking with her kind eyes at the girl. "Why, Nesta, you are as white as a sheet! Is anything wrong?" "No," said Nesta. She let the telegram flutter to the floor; it was Mrs Griffiths who picked it up. Nemesis had come--Nemesis with a vengeance. "I don't expect it is anything. Your father--I mean Flossie's father, is always fond of making mountains out of molehills. It is nothing special, it really isn't; you may be sure on that point," said the good woman. "Anyhow, he will tell us when he comes, and not all the guessing in the world will spoil our appetites, will it, Nesta? See this pigeon pie, the very best that could be got; I ordered it from the pastrycook's, for I don't much like some of our landlady's cooking." 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?"