He had to go upstairs to dress for dinner, this being a point about which Miss Finucane was very particular. If ever a man ventured to present himself at her dinner-table in morning dress she was apt to take it as a carefully studied reflection on her character. Her own time hung so heavily on her hands that she spent half her day over her wardrobe. She breakfasted in a fur-lined dressing-gown, put on a walking-dress during the morning, lunched in a third costume, wore an æsthetic tea-gown in the afternoon, made a grand toilet for dinner, and exchanged it for a loose night-robe in which she drank whisky and water before going to bed. In all these changes of costume jewels played a great part. Diamonds and sapphires meant to Molly much what a table well covered with briefs means to a barrister, or the strips of ribbon on his breast to a soldier; they were the tangible tokens of success. When Stuart came downstairs there was no sign of dinner. He sat down and tried to talk to Molly about the bazaar, but she listened sulkily, offended because he had not ventured to take her with him. “There were lots of women there, I suppose?” she asked, in a grumbling voice. “Yes, a good many. Women belonging to the Church, most of them, I expect.” “Was there anyone you knew?” She fixed a shrewdly questioning glance on him, and noted the momentary hesitation that preceded his reply. “No, no one.” Molly gave a scornful smile. “That’s a lie, Alistair. Was your mother there?” “I prefer not to talk about my mother,” returned Alistair, who dreaded Molly’s coarse tongue. “Do you think I didn’t know why you wouldn’t take me?” Molly retorted. “Who else was there?” “No one I had ever met before.” Molly pounced on the concealed admission. “Your mother introduced you to someone. Who was it?” Stuart rose to his feet, beginning to get angry. “The only woman I spoke to the whole afternoon was a young lady who, I believe, is going to marry my brother.” “What’s her name?” “I decline to tell you.” He walked over to the bell and rang it impatiently. “What the deuce are they keeping dinner for?” Molly sat silent, watching him with all the cunning of a narrow intelligence concentrated on one point. No one in the world was more ignorant than Molly Finucane was of the things that are written about in books, but the keenest counsel who ever sifted the evidence of a lying witness could not have matched the sureness with which she detected anything in Alistair’s mind that threatened her supremacy over him. Her instinct now warned her that some danger had arisen for her, and her fear, overpowering her jealousy for the moment, made her hold her tongue. No notice was taken of Lord Alistair’s ring, but after another ten minutes or so an untidy parlour-maid put her head into the room and announced that dinner was ready. The dinner was badly cooked, and not appetising, and the parlour-maid had neglected to warm the claret. Molly called for champagne.