"Yes, it is a pity,--a dreadful pity," says Molly, mournfully. "I should like to be really well dressed. Marcia, I suppose, will be in satin, or something else equally desirable." "No doubt she will deck herself out in Oriental splendor, if she discovers you can't," says Cecil, angrily. There is a pause,--a decided one. Cecil sits frowning and staring at Molly, who has sunk into an attitude expressive of the deepest dejection. The little ormolu clock, regardless of emotion, ticks on undisturbed until three full minutes vanish into the past. Then Cecil, as though suddenly inspired, says, eagerly: "Molly, why not ask your grandfather to give you a dress?" "Not for all the world! Nothing would induce me. If I never was to see a ball I would not ask him for sixpence. How could you think it of me, Cecil?" "Why didn't I think of it long ago, you mean? I only wish he was _my_ grandfather, and I would never cease persecuting him, morning, noon, and night. What is the use of a grandfather if it isn't to tip one every now and then?" "You forget the circumstances of my case." "I do not indeed. Of course, beyond all doubt, he behaved badly; still----I really think," says Cecil, in a highly moralizing tone, "there is nothing on earth so mistaken as pride. I am free from it. I don't know the meaning of it, and I know I am all the happier in consequence." "Perhaps I am more angry than proud." "It is the same thing, and I wish you weren't. Oh, Molly! do ask him. What can it signify what he thinks?" "Nothing; but a great deal what John thinks. It would be casting a slight upon him, as though he stinted me in clothes or money, and I will not do it." "It would be such a simple way," says Cecil, with a melancholy sigh,--dear Molly is so obstinate and old-fashioned; then follows another pause, longer and more decided than the last. Molly, with her back turned to her friend, commences such a dismal tattoo upon the window-pane as would be sufficient to depress any one without further cause. Her friend is pondering deeply. "Molly," she says, presently, with a fine amount of indifference in her tone,--rather suspicious, to say the least of it,--"I feel sure you are right,--quite right. I like you all the better for--your pride, or whatever you may wish to call it. But what a pity it is your grandfather would not offer you a dress or a check to buy it! I suppose"--quietly---"if he did, you would take it?" "What a chance there is of that!" says Molly, still gloomy. "Yes, if he _offered_ it I do not think I could bring myself to refuse it. I am not adamant. You see"--with a faint laugh--"my pride would not carry me very far." "Far enough. Let us go down to the others," says Cecil, rising and yawning slightly. "They will think we are planning high treason if we absent ourselves any longer." Together they go down-stairs and into the drawing-room, which they find empty.