"I don't know," smiling. "If you will let me, I can at least try to be." "Try, then, by all means." In a moment or two,--"I should like to fathom your thoughts," says Molly. "When I came in, there was more than bewilderment in your face; it showed--how shall I express it? You looked as though you had expected something else?" "Will you forgive me if I say I did?" "What, then? A creature tall, gaunt, weird----?" "No." "Fat, red, uncomfortable?" This touches so nearly on the truth as to be unpleasant. He winces. "I will tell you what I did not expect," he says, hastily, coloring a little. "How should I? It is so seldom one has the good luck to discover in autumn a rose belonging to June." His voice falls. "Am I one?" asks she, looking with dangerous frankness into the dark eyes above her, that are telling her silently, eloquently, she is the fairest, freshest, sweetest queen of flowers in all the world. The door opens, and Mr. Amherst enters, then Marcia. Philip straightens himself, and puts on his usual bored, rather sulky expression. Molly smiles upon her grumpy old host. He offers her his arm, Philip does the same to Marcia, and together they gain the dining-room. It is an old, heavily wainscoted apartment, gloomy beyond words, so immense that the four who dine in it tonight appear utterly lost in its vast centre. Marcia, in an evening toilet of black and ivory, sits at the head of the table, her grandfather opposite to her. Philip and Molly are _vis-a-vis_ at the sides. Behind stand the footmen, as sleek and well-to-do, and imbecile, as one can desire. There is a solemnity about the repast that strikes but fails to subdue Molly. It has a contrary effect, making her spirits rise, and creating in her a very mistaken desire for laughter. She is hungry too, and succeeds in eating a good dinner, while altogether she comes to the conclusion that it may not be wholly impossible to put in a very good time at Herst. Never does she raise her eyes without encountering Philip's dark ones regarding her with the friendliest attention. This also helps to reassure her. A friend in need is a friend indeed, and this friend is handsome as well as kind, although there is a little something or other, a suppressed vindictiveness, about his expression, that repels her. She compares him unfavorably with Luttrell, and presently lets her thoughts wander on to the glad fact that to-morrow will see the latter by her side, when indeed she will be in a position to defy fate,--and Marcia. Already she has learned to regard that dark-browed lady with distrust. "Is any one coming to-morrow?" asks Mr. Amherst, _a propos_ of Molly's reverie." "Tedcastle, and Maud Darley." "Her husband?" "I suppose so. Though she did not mention him when writing." "Poor Darley!" with a sneer: "she never does mention him. Any one else?" "Not to-morrow."