" Mr. Wrenn was too much
absorbed in wondering whether Miss Proudfoot would make some of
her celebrated--and justly celebrated--minced-ham sandwiches
for the picnic to be much interested. He was not much more
interested when she said, "Mrs. Ferrard's got a letter or
something for you."
Then, as dinner began, Mrs. Ferrard rushed in dramatically and
said, "There's a telegram for you, Mr. Wrenn!"
Was it death? Whose death? The table panted, Mr. Wrenn with
them.... That's what a telegram meant to them.
Their eyes were like a circle of charging bayonets as he opened
and read the message--a ship's wireless.
Meet me _Hesperida._--ISTRA.
"It's just--a--a business message," he managed to say, and
splashed his soup. This was not the place to take the feelings
out of his thumping heart and examine them.
Dinner was begun. Picnics were conversationally considered in
all their more important phases--historical, dietetical, and
social. Mr. Wrenn talked much and a little wildly. After
dinner he galloped out to buy a paper.
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