Molly’s own ideal was really very similar. The Cubitt-built life was the life for which she hankered with all a woman’s thirst for the envy of other women. If the Duchess had known it she might have found in Molly a much more trustworthy ally than in Hero Vanbrugh. But she was never likely to know it. For her Molly embodied every evil influence at work in Alistair’s life. The evil had triumphed, and the best that could now be hoped for was some poor salvage from the wreck.
“What sort of friends?” she said, in answer to Molly’s last remarks. “I am afraid my poor boy’s friendships have done him more harm than good.”
“His relations haven’t done much for him anyway.”
The two women regarded each other with unconcealed hostility as they exchanged these retorts. It was a new experience for the Duchess to be defied in this open fashion.
“I am afraid you must take the responsibility for that,” she said severely. “His brother and I were both trying to save him, but you prevented us.”
“How did I?”
“How? By marrying him, of course.”
“And why should that prevent your doing anything for him? I know! If he had married your Miss Vanbrugh, as you wanted, the Duke would have paid off his debts fast enough. Because he preferred me you wash your hands of him in revenge.”
“He did not prefer you,” said the Duchess sternly. “He thought that after living with you as he had done he was unfit to be the husband of a good woman.”
It was a merciless stab, the stab of a mother fighting for her offspring. For an instant Molly felt sick. Then, to the dismay of her adversary, she burst into tears.