In the absence of a servant, Molly was half inclined to let the visitor knock in vain. But, after all, a visit paid at such an hour could hardly be one of ceremony. Most likely the old thing wanted to ask her for a subscription: she would surely not presume to talk religion to her when she was informed of her rank.
Determined to put the intruder in her place at once, Molly went leisurely to the door and threw it open.
“Do you want to see me?” she asked roughly.
Caroline gazed at the pretty painted face that she had brought herself to believe had been her boy’s undoing, and there was not much relenting in the gaze.
“Are you my son’s wife?” she returned, with gravity.
Molly was taken aback. The idea that this old person, evidently a familiar figure in the court, should be the mother of Lord Alistair quite confused her for an instant.
“Are you the Duchess of Trent?” she stammered, with a shamefaced recollection of certain correspondence that had once passed between them.
“I am Alistair’s mother,” was the response. “Is he here?”
“He has gone out,” said Molly. Then, realizing that she was standing in the doorway, and that the interview was being watched by a number of curious eyes, she drew aside hastily. “But won’t you come inside?”
“I will, thank you.”