Molly had on a pale green tea-gown, which fell into a succession of almost classic folds with each rapid characteristic movement. The charm of her face was enormously increased by its greater softness of expression. Although she could not help wishing to please him, even in a moment full of other emotion, she did not know how much there was to make her successful to-day. She did not realise her own physical and moral development during the past months. Edmund's manner was unconsciously caressing. He had come, he told himself--and it was the third time he had called at the flat,--simply because he wanted to keep in touch, to get any information he could. And he had heard rumours from Florence that Madame Danterre was becoming steadily weaker and more unable to make any effort. "A man told me the other day that this was the best-furnished flat in London, and, by Jove! I rather think he was right." "I never believe in the man who told you things, he is far too apposite; I think his name is Harris." Edmund smiled at the fire. "Who was the attractive little priest I met here the other day?" he asked. "Little! He is as tall as you are." "Still, one thinks of him as _un bon petit pretre_, doesn't one? But who is he?" "Father Molyneux." "Not Groombridge's cousin?" "Yes, the same." "I wonder if he repents of his folly now? I didn't think he looked particularly cheerful!" "Didn't you?" said Molly. "Well, I think he is the happiest person I know! But we never do agree about people, do we?" "About a few we do, but it's much more amusing to talk about ourselves, isn't it?" "Much more. What do you want me to tell you about myself this time?" Edmund looked at her with sleepy eyes and perceived that something had changed. "I should like to know what you think about me?" he said gently. "No, you wouldn't," said Molly, and she gave a tiny sigh. "No, for some reason or other you want to know something which I have settled to tell you." Her manner alarmed and excited him. As a matter of honourable dealing he felt that he ought to give her pause. "Are you sure you are wise?" he said. "I'm not sure, but that's my own affair, and it will be a relief. I would rather you knew what you want to know, though why you want to know"--her eyes were searching him--"I can't tell." Sir Edmund Grosse almost told her that he did not want to know. "You want to know for certain that my mother is living in Florence under the name of Madame Danterre--the Madame Danterre you have tried to see there. And further, you want to know how much I have ever seen of her." "Oh, please!" cried Edmund, "I don't indeed wish you to tell me all this."