Lady Molly Calverley

H. B. MARRIOTT WATSON.*

CROSS the way from 11, Hargrave Street stood an attenuated house which seemed to have been crushed flat between its stouter neighbours. Into the windows of the third floor of this desirable residence Lady Molly Calverley had been staring for half an hour, in the hope of finding out who lived in the house and what went on there. She had completed her toilet, and leaned on the sofa of her bedroom, a French novel discarded on the sill, and the latest book of verses from the library sprawling on the floor. This latter had been filched surreptitiously from her sister Evelyn's room, in the hope of discovering what Evelyn really thought about; whereas the paper-back had come in her boxes from school the day before, the present of her dear friend Lydia Scarlett. Molly's watch had proved unavailing. She had noticed a young man enter the house opposite, and through the first-floor windows had traced him ascending the staircase, presumably after having deposited his walking-stick in the hall. He was a handsome figure of a man, but she had not been so fortunate as to see his face, either this day or the day before. What was most aggravating was that the young man vanished between the first and second floors, and all within the narrow house returned to its elemental stillness.

"Perhaps he lives on the first floor. Perhaps it's a lodging-house," said Molly. But, ignorant as she was of proportion in life, she had still some doubts if, in the eclectic neighbourhood of Hargrave Street, lodgings were likely to be found; and so she added to herself meditatively, as she sucked in her underlip: "But it can't be that. The house would cost too much—quite a hundred pounds." This was an amazing fine sum to Molly, if not to her father, whose rent in Hargrave Street more nearly approached four times that. Wearied by a vain pursuit, Molly threw herself on the sofa and carefully selected from a pocket a box of sweets, which she proceeded to eat with astonishing celerity. Her hard young teeth cracked through the lumps of toffee, and her fine animal jaws munched the sticky mass, as a cow might chew the cud of heavenly meditation. Meanwhile her eyes roved about the room in search of discoveries. There was in them a cold, self-centred curiosity which seemed to defy morality and knowledge alike. It was the stare of one perfectly content with her own outlook, oblivious of other points of view, and contemptuous of foreign opinion; but it was also the stare of an unappeasable inquisitiveness. Molly was, in effect, a vivid note of interrogation, although her natural furtiveness enabled her to conceal the fact. It did not usually advertise itself in her face, but as she ate and stared it was now recklessly apparent.

This had been Evelyn's room before Molly had returned from school, and she was anxious to see what traces of Evelyn remained. A few sentimental engravings of young ladies and children in Empire dress engaged in various pastimes hung upon the walls, and here and there was an original and indifferent drawing in water-colours, Evelyn's own work, which she had generously left as a legacy to her successor. On realising this, Molly rose, swiftly and deftly removed the pictures, and threw them into a corner of the room behind the dressing-table.

"Muck!" she said laconically, and stared lovingly at the sentimental engravings. "Now, that's what I should like to be like," was her comment, as her gaze ran with approbation on two graceful but unhuman figures, with doll-like faces, engaged in a minuet. "If only I were like them!" and she glanced down at her muslin frock with critical eyes. But Lady Molly was too practical to dwell long among regrets, and, moreover, she was comforted by the growth of an insidious idea in her mind that she might possibly be better than the doll-like figures in another style. She finished her last chocolate and, preparatory to descending the stairs, regarded herself in the mirror. A complacent look came into her face as she noted the bulging knot of brown hair in the nape of her neck. It had not reposed there until the previous day, and it marked her enfranchisement. Taking courage and spirit anew from the sight, she marched to the door, but ran back again to the glass, made a nice adjustment of her skirt, patted her cheek with powder and then rubbed it off nervously and violently, till the flesh glowed and sparkled with life and colour; and finally faded reluctantly from the glass, with a backward and admiring glance at her diminishing reflection.

Lady Molly descended the stairway sedately and listened. There was no sound in the house beyond the flutter of life habitual to it, and Molly sighed.

"I declare," she said, "I'd sooner be back at school, except for the way I've done my hair," she added reflectively. Opening a door at the foot of the staircase, she entered the library and wandered idly from shelf to shelf, seeking for an attractive title. "'Encyclo-pædia Britannica,'" she slowly pronounced. "Oh, Jiminy, what rot! I wonder where they keep Rhoda Broughton. 'Descent of Man.'" She took it from its place, turned the pages, and hastily put it back, "What awful stuff! I thought it was a novel," and here, as if weary of this attempt at choice, and abandoning selection for chance, she drew out a fat volume and threw it open. It had come from the shelf alongside of Darwin, and was full of strange pictures and diagrams. Her eyes arrested by these, Molly began to read.

It was a warm afternoon, and the sun shone brightly into the room, but the large bays of the library were in shadow. It was on the topmost ledge of the ladder in one of these that Molly sat and turned the pages of this odd, unintelligible book. But presently, while endeavouring to discern which end was the "right side up" of a plate, she was aware that someone else had entered the library. Indeed, two people had come in, and at the first sound of the voices Molly let her book collapse from her thoughts and listened.

"I thought it better to explain at once," began a hurried voice, which she identified as her sister Evelyn's.

"If there's any explaining, perhaps it is better to get it over," said the second voice, which was a man's, and which also Molly recognised without difficulty.

"Tiggy!" said she, and bent her ears with even greater interest.

"You see," pursued Evelyn, with what her sister perceived was trepidation, "I thought it right—I wanted to say—I think you ought to know"

"Well, it doesn't appear as if we were going to get it over in a hurry, Evelyn," said the man cheerfully. "What I meant was—I hope you won't think it unkind of me, or that I am heartless; because I am not, Roger. But people make mistakes; and we ought to be glad to find them out ere it is too late, so that—so that a lot of misery may be avoided."

She ended weakly, and for a moment there was silence. Molly almost let her book fall in her eagerness as she leaned forward.

"I think, perhaps, I have fathomed it," said the man's voice at last, and it seemed as cheerful as before; "and I certainly wouldn't dream of thinking you unkind. At any rate, it has been very pleasant—for a time."

"And it isn't as if we had ever been really engaged," broke in Evelyn quickly—"you must see that, Roger. There was only—only a sort of understanding; and—and I'm so sorry."

"Exactly," he answered after another slight pause—"only a sort of understanding. Understandings, as we know, Evelyn, are nothing to speak of, while engagements are—well, something. Ours had never, so to speak, materialised—it depended on—on conditions, I suppose. Upon my word, I do not know what it depended on."

"Will you forgive me for hurting you?" asked the invisible Evelyn.

"Why, with all my heart, my dear," responded the man promptly. "I will not deny it hurts, but I can safely deny that I am spiteful." He paused again and then said in a shorter voice: "I suppose it's Holdway?"

"Do you suppose," burst forth his companion hotly, "that it must be someone? Why can you not give me credit for common honesty? Directly I found out I had misunderstood my feelings, I came to you. You owe me thanks, really, Roger, for that."

"Yes, I suppose I owe you thanks, as you say, and I beg to tender them. But on the whole, I'm glad it's not—I'm glad it's no one else. It somehow makes it easier." Lady Molly's fat, scientific book with the strange plates rolled suddenly off her lap and fell with a great clamour to the floor. The sound created consternation in the adjoining bay, and was immediately followed by the swish of receding skirts and the noise of a door falling to. Upon that, ere Molly had recovered herself, the man emerged from behind the bay and stood peering through his eyeglass. He was of middle height, clean-shaven, and with a quiet, humorous eye, and was apparently about thirty-five years of age. Molly looked at him in some dismay, and he looked at Molly.

"I'm awfully sorry, Tiggy," said she. Tiggy came forward, picked up the book and examined it.

"A holiday task?" he inquired politely, fixing the embarrassed girl with his shining eyeglass.

"No; I've left school—of course not," returned Molly shortly.

"Then, I imagine, for pleasure," said Tiggy, turning over more pages. He pulled up at an astonishingly complex illustration and regarded it thoughtfully. "'Diagram of the medio-something of the aorta,'" he read. "This must be very interesting, Molly. To think that I have lived all these years and never happened upon it before. If you make any more discoveries like it, you must promise to let me know."

Molly shuffled on her perch. She disliked to be "chaffed" more than she disliked anything, but somehow the irritation she would otherwise have felt was soothed by her knowledge of what had happened.

"I say, Tiggy," she said abruptly, "I'm awfully sorry."

"It was certainly careless of you," said Tiggy; "but, after all, I don't think it's much the worse, except

"Oh, you know—I mean about Evelyn," said Molly, interrupting.

"Oh, about Evelyn!" he remarked slowly. "Then you listened."

"I couldn't help it," retorted Molly hotly. "She spoke so loud, and so did you; and besides, I was here before you."

"That's true," assented Tiggy. "But you might have dropped the book before."

"I never thought of it. I didn't know what you were going to talk of; and I nearly fell off the ladder, trying to keep still."

"Perhaps it would have been better if you had not tried to keep still, and even if you had fallen off the ladder," remarked Tiggy with an air of deliberation. "She's a beast!" said Molly, deserting the subject.

"I don't think we'll discuss Evelyn, Molly, if you don't mind," said the man mildly.

"And don't you believe her. It is Holdway. I've asked the children since I got back," continued Molly triumphantly.

Tiggy winced.

"It was good of you to make sure," he said, "particularly as you have had so short a time to look about you. I think if perhaps you could find the proper place for this—this interesting work of

Molly took it from him, replaced it, and descended rapidly. She was full of excitement and anger. Evelyn, as she had gathered from her mother, had been in favour of another term at school; and, besides, the attitude of twenty-three to seventeen is usually distressing.

"I'll jolly well dish Evelyn for you, Tiggy!" she declared eagerly.

"I—I am by no means clear that I should like her dished," said poor Tiggy; "though naturally I appreciate the spirit which inspires your offer."

"We all of us always looked upon you as engaged. It's rot for Evelyn to talk as she did," went on Molly. "She's a sneak, and wants to hook on to old Holdway because of his money."

Once again did the man wince.

"I must make a note of the name of that book," he said. "What was it, again, Molly?"

"Of course, you are rather old for Evelyn," pursued the girl, scrutinising him. "But I'd sooner you had her than anyone else."

"Thanks," ejaculated Tiggy, smiling faintly. "I would have looked after her as a father."

"It's better to be old and good, Tiggy, than to be young and wicked."

"I feel that—I am conscious of that hourly," said he mildly.

"Well, I'll take it out of Evelyn," threatened her sister. "See if I don't. She's cheated us of a very nice relation, and I don't care if I do say it to your face."

"I can do nothing but bow my thanks and my appreciation," said Tiggy, doing so.

"And Delia and I had so looked forward to the wedding and being bridesmaids," ended the girl regretfully.

"I am sorry," said Tiggy hesitatingly; "but, if, as you suggest, someone else—Holdway—perhaps bridesmaids

"No," said Molly abruptly, "she shan't. I'll be even with her and revenge you. You can put your shirt on that."

Full of this determination, Lady Molly took the opportunity to desert furtively that afternoon and pay a visit to her friend Lydia, who, exceeding her years by one, and being of quite a different character, naturally appeared to her as the most wise and thorough woman of the world she had known. Molly would have despised her mother's advice where she would have welcomed and accepted Lydia's. She escaped with difficulty, owing to the fact that on the threshold, as she was stealing forth, she encountered the governess, Miss Lyne, and the family, in descending grades, from Delia of fifteen to Marjorie of six.

"Where are you going?" asked Cecily, the nine-year-old girl. "She's no right to go, even if she has got her hair up, has she, Miss Lyne? You can't go alone, Molly," she called out.

"Little children should not meddle with what doesn't concern them," said Molly with dignity. "I'm going shopping with a friend. I've got some shopping to do."

"Take me shopping, Molly! I want to go shopping! I've got some shopping to do to—o—o!" screamed Marjorie on the breeze after her; but the sounds choked—the door must have shut—and the rest of that sobbing plaint was delivered within unsympathising and gloomy walls.

Lydia Scarlett had full red lips and a ripe figure. Being an heiress under a guardian who took his duties very lightly, she was already practically mistress of her own actions, if not yet of her fortune. She lived in Bayswater with her guardian, who was self-centred and a widower, and whose sister was insufficiently strong to dictate to a self-willed young woman. Lydia's advice was brief and blunt, as she sprawled on the sofa in a voluptuous fashion.

"Display your points," was how she summed it up, and looked with affection on some of her own.

Molly had a doubtful expression.

"I haven't very many," she said wistfully; but Lydia did not contradict her in the way she had hoped.

"Oh, you have a good complexion, dear—too high, perhaps," said Miss Scarlett, whose pale cheeks contrasted with her red lips. And your eyes are fair, although too light—but" she let her glance go deliberately down the slim young figure, "you're a little thin."

"Well, I'd sooner be that," began Molly hotly, "than be as" and then stopped. She could not treat Lydia as she would her sister Evelyn; for the attraction and magnetism of schoolgirl superiority were still strong upon her.

"Go on," commanded Miss Scarlett sweetly; and as there was no answer: "I know quite well what you were going to say. I dare say you would—more fool you! Men don't like women's women, my dear, as you'll find out. They've got their own ideas, and" here she once more let her glance stray over herself, "they're not likely to be yours."

"Well," said Molly, with a little laugh, for Lydia at that moment struck her as being "too conceited for anything"—"I want one man's to be mine."

Lydia looked very important. The timid laugh had mollified her.

"Take it from me," she said—"you have to make yours the man's."

This, out of the wisdom of somewhat ripe eighteen, required elucidation; but Molly was a quick pupil and was also no ignoramus. So that she did not need more than a broad hint in order to develop her plan. Holdway gave her the opportunity she desired by arriving on the following afternoon.

Sir George Holdway, a broad-shouldered, square-faced man of middle height, with an easy laugh and a familiar manner, had waited with some impatience for Lady Templeton or her daughter, in the hope that it would be the latter, and not the former, who would enter. Instead of either, he was astounded by the sudden apparition through the doorway into the adjoining room of a girl with red geraniums in her hair and a most marvellous flowing gown of satin clothing her slim form. He started up, and the girl also started aback.

"Sir George!" she exclaimed as in dismay, and Sir George smiled.

"I did not recognise you, Lady Mary," he said, "not in that dress."

"It is my Empire dress," she said modestly, and turned about. "Do you think it is pretty?"

"Pretty, by Jove!" exclaimed Sir George admiringly.

The girdle was loose about the slender bust, and the light sparkled on the satin, making a vivid picture.

"I'm glad," said Molly demurely. "You see, I get no chance to wear things like this. Mamma doesn't like it, and Evelyn won't let me."

"What a shame!" said the young man, eyeing her.

"I put it on surreptitiously," confessed Molly, "and I came in to give someone a surprise."

"By Jove! so you did," ejaculated Sir George, in good humour.

"Oh! I didn't know you were here. I thought mamma was," explained Molly simply.

"By Jove! no; I'm glad" began Sir George.

"I'm glad you like it, however," went on Molly. "It makes one feel more grown-up. Do you think I look very young, Sir George?"

"You're just young enough," said Sir George gallantly.

Molly seated herself on the edge of a chair and put out her feet, so that the scarlet shoes were in full view.

"You see," she said confidentially, "they won't let me have long enough gowns."

"I don't like long gowns," protested Sir George.

"But you said you liked this!" she exclaimed, raising reproachful eyes to him.

"Oh, by Jove! yes," exclaimed Sir George hastily; "it's stunning! "

"I had the greatest difficulty in getting them to let me do my hair up," said Molly. "I think Evelyn wants to keep me back."

"What a shame!" was again all that Sir George could think of to say.

"I'm not a schoolgirl," continued Molly, crossing her legs boldly; "and many girls used to be married at seventeen, didn't they? I think it's absurd to make rules just as if they could apply to everyone. You mustn't come out till you're eighteen! I know my mind now as much as ever I shall."

"I should think so," said Sir George, who was using his eyes rather than his ears.

"You see," explained Molly, "girls know a good deal more than you think. They could give points to the girls who used to be married at seventeen."

"Married at seventeen," echoed Sir George, to whom the words had come home.

"Lots of them were," said Molly demurely—"our grandmothers, you know."

"Of course, our grandmothers," assented Sir George. "By Jove!" he added, "I don't wonder."

Molly let the fan with which she was supplied fall in her lap and composed herself comfortably in the chair.

"Is there anything going on in town?" she asked languidly.

Sir George started.

"Oh—oh—the usual things," he replied.

"Balls—operas—theatres," Molly sighed. "I suppose you enjoy them very much."

"Not much; rather a bore sometimes," declared Sir George. "But such beautiful people! such lovely dresses! such amusing companions!" said Molly, languishing.

"By Jove! one needn't go to balls and so on for that," said Sir George heartily. "I don't know that I don't

But Molly was unhappily prevented from learning what he preferred, as Evelyn entered at that moment, in her walking dress, seeming much flurried, and stared in amazement at what she saw.

Sir George rose quickly but awkwardly. "I—I had hoped to find Lady Templeton in," he said.

"My mother is in," said Evelyn abruptly, and cast a sharp glance at Molly, who was still seated demurely wagging her fan.

"Molly, how can you make yourself so ridiculous?" she went on sharply. "You had better go and change at once."

"Oh, come, Lady Evelyn," protested the young man mildly.

Molly rose, and behind her fan flashed a look at the visitor which was full of liquid light. She moved to the door, and Sir George went after her to open it.

"Thank you so much," she said sweetly, and then, catching her foot in her trailing gown, pitched forward into his arms. Sir George gave an awkward laugh, held the slight form momentarily against him, and then aided her to recover her balance. "Thanks ever so much," said Molly, rosy of face, and disappeared.

"Molly is very wilful," said Evelyn to Sir George, with a deprecating smile as if to apologise for her sister. "I really think she ought to go back to school." But Sir George made no reply.

Molly's delinquency was subsequently brought under the notice of her mother, who reproved her gently and ineffectually.

"Dear, you are too old for that kind of thing," she declared, as she was accustomed to say on hearing her daughter indulge in slang. But Molly made no excuses and no protest. She encountered Tiggy in the library, where he was engaged in cataloguing her father's books between the arduous labours of his rare briefs; but she made no reference to Evelyn.

Tiggy fixed his glass in his eye and contemplated her. "You've grown, Molly," he said. "Let me see, you came home on Monday. I believe you've grown since then."

"Have I?" asked Molly eagerly.

Tiggy examined her. "Yes," he said deliberately, " you've grown more grown-up."

That was good hearing, because it promised longer frocks and earlier emancipation. The hair had gone up, but the frocks had not gone down—at all events, sufficiently to please Molly. This accounted for her resumption of an ancient pastime common to the young Calverleys, male and female, which was known as "shooting the shoot," and consisted in sliding down the banisters. It was odd that Sir George should have entered while this sport was in full swing. He stood in rapt attention while Marjory came down, and, disregarding the officious services of the footman, approached to watch Delia descend. Thereupon there was a pause. Molly looked at him defiantly.

"Next, please," said Sir George; but even Frank was abashed by the unexpected appearance of a stranger.

"I suppose you think this is a childish amusement?" said Molly with hauteur.

"By Jove, no!" exclaimed Sir George with haste.

"It isn't any more foolish than skating or golf," she went on, somewhat mollified by his admission.

"Of course not—jolly foolish game, golf!" said Sir George.

Molly regarded him suspiciously, but saw no irony in his eye, which was amiable and even apologetic.

"I was chaperoning the children," she explained.

"Oh, Molly! what a" But Frank's remark was cut short by a push from his sister.

"One has sometimes to amuse the children," said Molly loftily.

"Naturally," agreed Sir George. "Awfully good of you, I'm sure!"

"She does it better than any of us but me!" interjected Marjory's shrill voice.

"I don't, you little" began Molly, but stopped herself and smiled blandly on Sir George. "Of course, I can do it," she observed. "There's really a good deal of skill necessary. The balance is the main thing."

"Won't you?" said Sir George. "Will you"

"Oh, if yon like," said Molly indifferently, and proceeded to the first landing. She tucked her skirt under her and sat gracefully on the rail. "You must only look from that side of the banisters," she said, "or I shall not do it."

"Right," said Sir George promptly; "but," as Molly observed to Delia afterwards, "I know he did, the beast!"

Gracefully, like some swan gliding on the face of the waters, yet ever gathering momentum, Molly skimmed the air and was propelled like a dainty missile from the edge of the balustrade into the wide hall. It was a well-known flight for all the children and served as the exciting culmination of the performance, much as the last plunge over the precipice enthralls the ski-rider or the tobogganist. But on this occasion the performance was not destined to the usual airy flight, for Sir George had moved, and the lithe body of Lady Molly plumped full into his arms with some force.

The impact of that strenuous and healthy frame sufficed to take the wind from the baronet; but though red of face, he held on to his prize and smiled broadly.

"What the dickens" began Molly indignantly; but suddenly remembering, as only her sex can remember in a crisis, struggled faintly to be free and murmured thanks. "It was very good of you," she said, "but it was not necessary. I was quite safe."

"I liked it," said the fatuous Sir George, puffing.

"I'm glad you're so easily pleased," said Molly, raising her eyebrows in expressive but calm surprise.

"Catch me, too! Oh, do catch me, too!" shrieked Marjory, poising herself on the banisters; but Sir George was still faint in the pit of his stomach, and hastily retired.

"You will find Evelyn in the drawing-room," said Molly with nonchalance.

"But aren't you—aren't" wheezed Sir George.

"Evelyn tells me that I must take tea with the children in the nursery," said Molly, looking down demurely like a nun.

"By Jove!" said Sir George, which, after all, meant more with him than with most people.

Miss Lydia Scarlett was pleased to approve of the progress of events, although she did not understand why Molly should take all this trouble. "But when you get a little older, my dear," she told her friend, "this experience will be valuable. It's not bad to begin with."

Particularly was Miss Scarlett satisfied with the episode of the balustrade, of which Molly in cold blood had begun to feel somewhat ashamed. Yet the approbation of her own sex is more soothing to a woman than the admiration of the other, and Molly was inspirited and encouraged to resume her operations. It became less difficult as Sir George took it into his head not to keep orthodox hours in his visits, and on several occasions Evelyn was out. On the last occasion, however, Evelyn was not out, but had returned from Bond Street, very cross and very tired. She had consequently retired to her room to compose and rest herself. No one could possibly be expected at such an hour. It was dusk, and the lights had not been lit, but the lamp over the way flared weakly into the drawing-room in which Sir George had been seated alone for some time. He did not expect Lady Templeton when the door opened, and, sure enough, it was not Lady Templeton who entered, but her second daughter, dressed very simply in a virgin robe of white, a single gold brooch at her throat.

"Mamma asked me to tell you that she will be here presently," she explained in her pretty, appealing way. "Evelyn has a headache."

"Oh, I say, I'm sorry," murmured Sir George.

"Yes," said Molly thoughtfully; "naturally you would be, wouldn't you?"

"Of course, by Jove!" declared Sir George, and moved a little nearer on the sofa on which she had seated herself. The fire in the grate burned brightly, but there was little light else in the big room.

"I think Evelyn would make a very beautiful mistress of a house," said Molly, ruminating. "Don't you? She is so handsome and so clever, and so—well—grande dame, you know. So different from most girls—don't you think so?"

"I admire Lady Evelyn very much," said Sir George.

"Really? Well, of course you do," said Molly archly, laughing. "Do you know, I think it would be very fine to be rich—really rich, yon know."

"Rather a bore, sometimes," hazarded Sir George, observing the fading figure in the dusk.

"Don't you like it?" said Molly in surprise.

"Well," said Sir George, "you see, I've never been anything else, and so I can't say."

"And I've never been anything but poor," said Molly with a sigh. "You know, papa is poor," she added gravely.

"Ripping fine place, Templeton," said Sir George awkwardly.

"And I should like Evelyn to be happy and married, and get away from—from poverty, and noise, and children she dislikes—and" Molly's fluency failed, for Sir George had taken hold of her hand in the dark.

"Why do you want her to be married?" asked his voice.

"Because," said Molly, letting her hand lie where it was, "she would be happy, and so should I."

"Well," said Sir George, with some defiance, as it seemed, "there are plenty of fellows who would be glad to marry Lady Evelyn. She won't die an old maid."

"Oh, dear, no," said Molly archly; "we all know that." "Would you like to have plenty of money, Lady Molly?" he asked abruptly, and the hand he held was held tightly.

"Of course," she answered, struggling for the possession of her property. "Sir George, you're hurting my hand; and if Evelyn"

He said something which sounded like "Bother Evelyn!" but, of course, Molly could not be sure.

"You are always flinging Evelyn at me," he said roughly.

"Good gracious me! I cannot think how you can say such a rude thing," said Molly haughtily. "We have done nothing of the kind. It is you yourself who"

"Oh, I didn't mean that," said Sir George penitently. "I'm speaking of you—you."

"I should like my own hand, please, Sir George," said Molly firmly.

"Answer me one question first," demanded the eager baronet. "You would like to be rich?"

"How can you ask such foolish questions? Of course I should," said Molly. "Please let my hand go."

"Then will you?" pleaded Sir George with fatuous confusion.

"How absurd! I can't be," returned Molly. "You've crushed my little finger."

"Yes, you can, dear," said Sir George in loverlike tones. "Molly, will you marry me?"

"Good gracious!" said Molly, springing to her feet and recapturing her hand, crushed, hot, but entire. "I thought you wanted Evelyn."

"No, not Evelyn, but you, Molly, you!" cried the impassioned lover.

Molly evaded him. "It would be very nice," she said regretfully, "if I liked you."

"But you do—surely you do?" pleaded George.

Molly shook her head.

"I think there ought to be lights," she said in a practical voice. "This isn't a scene where it should be dark."

"Molly!" cried Sir George, advancing; but Molly had escaped behind a chair, and in another moment the electric light flooded the room.

Sir George said a word very quietly and distinctly.

"I'm very sorry, Sir George. I like you very much," said Molly sweetly; and, as if in celebration of the illumination, Lady Templeton entered at that moment. She saw an angry face and a demure one, but, being Lady Templeton, did not notice them.

"Mamma," said Molly breathlessly and importantly, "Sir George has asked me to be his wife, and I have regretfully declined."

Lady Templeton sat down heavily in her chair.

"Good Heavens, child!" she exclaimed, and stared.

"I think I had better say 'Good-bye,' Lady Templeton," said Sir George, between bluffness and shame, and he blundered out of the house.

"That settles Evelyn's hash," said Lady Molly, as she went up the stairs in triumph. She took no notice of Marjory or Frank, and condescendingly patted Delia on the shoulder. "My dear girl," she called her, and expressed a languid opinion as to the superiority of blue ribbon over pink for Delia's hair. "They can't keep me from being out now," she thought to herself with glee; "and that's another for Evelyn," she concluded.

Lady Molly Calverley was correct in part of her deductions. Sir George's visits ceased. But in another she was deeply disappointed. There was, as yet, no talk of any début. Indeed, it seemed to threaten to slide itself away into the farther distance. This Molly attributed to Evelyn.

"If Evelyn married, it might be different. You might be hurried on, dear," said her mother in her foolish way.

If Evelyn married! Why, it seemed then that she had wrought her own destruction. This was the irony of fate indeed! But still, she had "dished" Evelyn.

"I really could not help his proposing, Evelyn, could I?" asked Molly innocently. "And he has such horrid hands."

"You are very vulgar," said Evelyn in her cold way, and said no more. How could she? She only removed herself in her stately manner from the room.

Fresh from this pleasant encounter, Molly met Tiggy. It would, perhaps, be truer to say that she sought him. The Honourable Roger Martin was half-way up the ladder when a voice called him from below. He descended, placed a big, calf-bound volume carefully on the shelf, and dusted his sleeve.

"I've done it, Tiggy! I've done it!" cried Molly delightedly.

"If I might ask what it is you've done," said Tiggy, "perhaps we might get on further. You haven't broken another"

"Oh, you duffer! I told you I would," said Molly disrespectfully. "Holdway's off. He's proposed to me!" she burst out.

The Honourable Roger Martin fitted his eyeglass very deliberately.

"Proposed to you!" he repeated.

"Yes, just think; he sat squeezing my hand, the old beast!"

"Old!" said Tiggy thoughtfully. "Well, old, you know!"

"He's thirty," declared Molly.

"And I'm thirty-five," sighed Tiggy.

"Anyhow," said Molly, "he's gone—and you can have Evelyn again now, if you want to."

"That's very kind of you," said Tiggy. "Have you told Evelyn she can have me?"

Molly stared.

"Oh, what rot!" she said indifferently. "Don't chaff. If you want her, there she is; and the sooner she goes, the better, because I'll be allowed 'out' then."

"Ah!" exclaimed Tiggy still thoughtfully. "If I could only manage it for you! But do you know, Molly, I have come to the conclusion I am too old. You are right, my dear. I'm only for a dowager. I feel my grey hairs. You can see it in my eyeglass. It reflects my age and my infirmities, and there stands confessed the image of my future wife."

"Pooh! there's nothing there," said Molly, gazing at his monocle. "I can only see my own face bulging out in a funny way."

"Only your own face!" murmured Tiggy. "I'm sorry it bulges out. There!" The glass skipped from his eye and he smiled on her gravely.

"Then you won't have Evelyn?" said Molly, disappointed.

"My dear Molly," said the Honourable Roger mildly but firmly, "I shall just sit here all day and night until Evelyn comes and proposes to me."

"Oh, you're talking nonsense now!" said Molly, shrugging her shoulders.

"I am thinking sense, child," said he.

Molly shrugged her shoulders again and marched to the door.

"He would have kissed me if I would have let him," she said defiantly as she opened the door.

"By Jove!" exclaimed Tiggy, and put his eyeglass in its place again to look at her. But she was gone; and it was not for some five minutes that Mr. Martin resumed bis occupation.