But, glancing in a furtive way over her shoulder, she saw Cecil Laurens leaning against the newel, and intently watching her progress. “_Diable!_ he distrusts me,” she muttered, and a clever thought came to her. She opened the door and went in with the books. Molly looked up at her with those dark, wistful orbs that ought to have moved even the Frenchwoman’s wicked heart, but their plaintive sorrow did not touch the creature that Louise had bribed with gold. “Madame,” she said, smoothly, “Miss Barry has sent you some good, Christian books to read, and hopes they will do you good. She called to take your husband to a morning concert, and left the books and the message.” The sorrow in the dark eyes changed to jealous anger. “Has he gone with that woman?” Molly asked. “_Oui_, madame,” said Florine, with a profound courtesy; then, smiling, “Ah, madame, what a glorious beauty is that queenly Miss Barry! No wonder--” She pauses. CHAPTER XXXVII. Molly looked keenly at the hesitating maid. “‘It is no wonder’--well, go on,” she said, sharply. “I beg madame’s pardon, I meant no harm, but I was about to say it was no wonder that Monsieur Cecil admires Miss Barry so much,” answered Florine, deprecatingly. Molly looked straight into the shifting treacherous black eyes. “Does my husband admire _her_?” she asked, in a strange voice. “La, madame, how should I know? It was but a slip of the tongue. I only judged by appearances,” Florine said, tossing her smart head with its cap and ribbons. Molly pointed at the package of books. “Take them away and put them into the fire,” she said, furiously, her heart swelling with jealousy. “I will have nothing to do with the books or the sender!” “_Oui, madame_,” said Florine, courtesying. She took up the books and went out quickly. Cecil was still lingering in the hall, perhaps awaiting some message from his wife after his overture of kindness. Florine went up to him with a hypocritically sorry face. “Monsieur, I do not think Madame Laurens is herself quite this morning. She told me to put the books into the fire.” Cecil stared in incredulous amazement. “Nonsense, she could not have said that,” he exclaimed. “_Mais, oui, monsieur_, I speak her very words. ‘Take them away and put them into the fire, I will have nothing to do with them or the sender,’ she said.” “_Really_, Florine?” “Monsieur, I swear by the saints those were madame’s words. Ask her if you doubt me.” She had such an air of truth and injured innocence that he believed her, and his face grew so stern and pale that she was frightened. But he took the package from her hands without a word, and carried it to his room. “I will keep them here always to remind me of this rebuff when I feel tempted again to show her any kindness,” he said, sternly. And when Molly made her appearance at dinner that evening he was as cold as ice, merely noticing her presence by a slight sarcastic bow.