Mr. Walter Scott passed on, surrounded by a host of friends; and Molly retreated again to her seat. Plenty was going on to amuse and interest her. She had danced twice, and now a rather long pause had come, no fresh partners turning up. Molly was of course under Mrs. Bryce’s wing, but that lady had too many irons in the fire to spare much time for the quiet country girl at her side. Molly cared little. She liked to look and listen, indulging in cogitations of her own. Mrs. Bryce’s gay talk was entertaining enough, as the good lady expatiated on this person and that, flirted her fan at one elderly gentleman and captured another, dissected theoretically one lady’s “bewitching gown,” and descanted on the “superb equipage” possessed by another, reverting then to the “London Particular Madeira” which had been served at a recent grand dinner-party, and hoping for some of the same at supper. Growing surfeited with this, Molly turned her attention elsewhere, and descried Admiral Peirce close at hand, button-holing another gentleman, and holding forth to him in a loud voice on the advantages of London as a place of residence. “Why, sir,” he was saying, “why, sir, there’s nothing after all like old Thames. Give me the blue ocean and tossing waves. But for a landsman—why, the Thames is as good as he may look to find. And I tell you what, sir, the water of the river Thames is the finest drinking-water in the world! Only has to stand and ferment a little, and then it’ll keep as long as ever you want it.[1] Yes, sir, it will indeed.” Molly, being sublimely indifferent to the qualities of London drinking-water, which in those days was not considered a question of pressing interest, wandered farther afield. A slight pucker came between her brows, as she made out Polly at a short distance, with Captain Albert Peirce in close attendance. He was bending towards Polly, saying something in a low and confidential voice; and it was impossible from Polly’s look to know whether she were pleased or displeased. The gay scene around faded from Molly’s vision. She was looking down, thoughtfully, at her own half-furled fan; but she did not see the fan, or the crowds of gay women around in their low dresses and hats or turbans, scarves and muffs and satin shoes. Another scene had risen before her mental eyes. She seemed again to be in a day long gone by; and Roy was giving her a boisterous kiss. “All right, Molly!” he was calling gaily. “It’s only for two weeks, you know, and then we shall be back again.” And as Roy ran off, in high glee, she had looked up, and had seen Denham Ivor holding Polly’s hands in a firm clasp, while Polly’s sweet face was downward bent and blushing. But it was not Polly who in one moment had left an indelible impression upon Molly’s childish memory. When she thought of that day it was always Ivor’s face—the young Guardsman’s look of silent grave devotion—which unbidden came up.