"Plantagenet, dancing has muddled your brain. How should I know whether he lost his money or not? I am merely supposing. You are dull to-night. Come and play a game at ecarte with me, to see if it may rouse you." They part for the night rather earlier than usual, pleading fatigue,--all except Mr. Potts, who declares himself fresh as a daisy, and proposes an impromptu dance in the ball-room. He is instantly snubbed, and retires gracefully, consoling himself with the reflection that he has evidently more "go" in his little finger than they can boast in their entire bodies. Sir Penthony having refused to acknowledge his wife's parting salutation,--meant to conciliate,--Cecil retires to her room in a state of indignation and sorrow that reduces her presently to tears. Her maid, entering just as she has reached the very highest pinnacle of her wrongs, meets with anything but a warm reception. "How now, Trimmins? Did I ring?" asks she, with unwonted sharpness, being unpleasantly mindful of the redness of her eyes. "No, my lady; but I thought----" "Never think," says Cecil, interrupting her with unreasoning irritation. "No, my lady. I only thought perhaps you would see Miss Massereene," persists Trimmins, meekly. "She wishes to know, with her love, if you can receive her now." "Miss Massereene? Of course I can. Why did you not say so before?" "Your ladyship scarcely gave me time," says Trimmins, demurely, taking an exhaustive survey of her cambric apron. "True; I was hasty," Cecil acknowledges, in her impulsive, honest, haughty way. "Tell Miss Massereene I shall be delighted to see her at once." Presently Molly enters, her eyelids pink, the corners of her mouth forlornly curved, a general despondency in her whole demeanor. Cecil, scarcely more composed, advances to meet her. "Why, Molly!" she says, pathetically. "You have been crying," says Molly, in the same breath, throwing herself into her arms. "I have indeed, my dear," confesses Cecil, in a lachrymose tone, and then she begins to cry again, and Molly follows suit, and for the next five minutes they have a very comfortable time of it together. Then they open their hearts to each other and relate fluently, as only a woman can, all the intolerable wrongs and misjudgment they have undergone at the hands of their lovers. "To accuse me of anything so horrible!" says Molly, indignantly. "Oh, Cecil! I don't believe he could care for me one bit and suspect me of it." "'Care for you!' Nonsense, my dear! he adores you. That is precisely why he has made such a fool of himself. You know-- "Trifles light as air, Are to the jealous confirmations strong As proofs of holy writ.