THE WAY OF THE WIND
MR. SCOTT passed on, surrounded by a host of friends, and Molly returned to her seat. Rather a long pause had come, with no fresh partners, Mrs. Bryce having too many irons in the fire to spare much time for looking after the quiet country girl by her side. Molly cared little. She liked to watch and listen, indulging in cogitations of her own. Growing surfeited with Mrs. Bryce's gay talk, she turned her attention to Admiral Peirce, who, close at hand, was holding forth 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. Yes, sir, it will indeed."
Molly, being sublimely indifferent to the qualities of London drinking water, which in those days was not a question of pressing interest, wandered elsewhere. A slight pucker came between her smooth brows as she made out Polly at a short distance, with Captain Peirce in attendance. He was bending towards Polly, saying something in a low and confidential voice. It could not be known from Polly's look whether she were pleased or displeased.
The gay scene faded from Molly's vision. She was looking down, thoughtfully, on her own half-furled fan. But she did not see the fan, or the crowds of gay women around, with their low dresses and hats or turbans, their 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." 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, always the young Guardsman's look of silent grave devotion, which, unbidden, came up.
"How can Mrs. Bryce say such things? He will never, never forget," murmured Molly, her lips moving.
"Molly, this is, sure, scarce a place for audible meditation."
Molly's face grew bright, as Jack deposited himself in an empty chair by her side.
"Were you spouting Mr. Scott's last new poem?"