“Take me with you, then,” Molly demanded.
“Can’t. I’m going to see Des Louvres.”
“You’re always going there. What do you want to see him for?”
“It’s on business to do with the Legitimists.”
“Bother the Legitimists!” Molly was not a politician. Beyond the vague notion that all these pretenders of whom she heard so much enjoyed the secret patronage of the Pope, and must therefore be in some way inimical to that Protestantism which it had been her first lesson as a child to abjure and abhor, she was completely indifferent to their cause.
“I won’t have you go,” she continued. “You’ve been out all day, and left me alone with those wretched servants. I want you to take me to the theatre.”
“I’ve no money,” said Stuart impatiently.
“Can’t you borrow some?”
“Who from?”
A name rose to Molly’s lips, but she hesitated to pronounce it. She looked at Stuart, and as their eyes met each knew what the other was thinking of.