“DARLING MOTHER,” wrote Margot. “You haven’t answered about whether you’re coming to the match, and _do_ come if you can, because Josy and Stella want to see you, and Stella’s coming on purpose. Gretta and I didn’t tell Sybil we’d asked you so that she should have a ripping surprise, and please bring some of those chocolates she liked so much at York, because her dormer isn’t going to have a feast and ours is, and she minds much more than we should, because she’s not so keen on hockey yet. Your loving MARGOT.”
The letter received in answer proved that Mrs. Fleming had understood the somewhat rambling contents of her daughter’s note; it arrived on Friday morning, the day before that settled upon for the eventful match, and both Margot and Gretta, walking arm-in-arm round the hockey-field after breakfast, read and re-read the missive, at each time of reading commenting wonderingly on one particular sentence:
“I shall love to come on Saturday, and shall drive over in the car,” wrote Mrs. Fleming, in the large, generous-looking handwriting that her daughter declared “looked just like mother,” “but I expect you will be surprised to hear that it is the last time I shall be able to use it. Tell Gretta that I have something very important to talk to her about, and I hope she and I will be able to get a little quiet time together.”
“Why, whatever can it be?” asked Margot for the twentieth time.
Gretta’s mind flew, as it almost always did, musicwards. “Could it be about my fiddle?” she asked. “I mean, could Monsieur Villon have complained or anything?”
“Now, Gretta, you _know_ he couldn’t,” laughed her cousin; “Miss Slater’s just as pleased about your music as she can be, and you know that day Miss Read said to nurse, when you cut your finger at supper, that sometime you’d be insuring your right hand for thousands of pounds, like--what’s his name?--Kreisler, isn’t it? Well, that’s the very thing it _couldn’t_ be!”
Gretta gave a sigh of relief. “Oh, I _did_ hope not, of course. It couldn’t be dad, could it?”
“Oh, no, I’m sure it couldn’t be that, either. He wrote to you himself, yesterday, you know--that letter where he said that everything was going on well, and that Ann had learned to cook bacon properly. Depend upon it, Gretta, _that’s_ nothing to be frightened about! But why, oh, _why_, is it the last time that they’re using the car? I can’t believe that dad wants a new one already! It’s one of those new Daimlers, you know, and he said that its running was perfect--‘mounts a hill like a bird!’--that’s what he said in his very last letter, and it wasn’t so long ago.”