“You are a cruel, wicked woman to say a thing like that. You hate me because I love Alistair, and you know that he loves me. What do you want me to do?”
The Duchess’s conscience smote her. She sat there unable to make a reply. After all, now that this wretched marriage had taken place, what did she want Alistair’s wife to do?
Molly, unconscious of the difficulty, removed it by putting her question in a different form.
“He came back to me of his own accord,” she sobbed. “I was living here—with my brother—and he came and asked me to marry him. What ought I to have done?”
“You knew that such a marriage would be his ruin. You ought to have saved him from it, if you really did love him.”
“And what about me?” moaned the dejected Molly.
The Duchess felt a momentary shame.
“There are Homes,” she said, with hesitation, “where women who desire to lead better lives are encouraged and trained to become useful members of society.”
Molly sat up, and dashed away the tears that were making havoc of her rouge and powder.
“And is that what you want to do to me? Put me into a reformatory, and cut my hair, and make me go about in a grey dress and an apron, saying ‘Ma’am’ to a lot of old maids who are too ugly themselves for any man to want them? and then get me a situation as a servant or something, where I should always be patronized and watched to see that I didn’t enjoy myself? No, thank you! I won’t go into your Home! I won’t—I won’t!”