Molly lowers her eyes, but makes no reply; experience has taught her that this is one of the occasions on which "silence is golden."
"You sing yourself, perhaps?" she says, presently, when she has tired of waiting for him to start a subject.
"Occasionally. Will you sing this with me?" taking up a celebrated duet and placing it before her. "Do you know it?"
"Yes, Mr. Luttrell and I used to sing it often at Brooklyn: it was a great favorite of ours."
"Oh, that! Indeed!" laying it aside with suspicious haste. "Shall we try something else?"
"And why something else?" composedly. "Does that not suit your voice? If it does, I will sing it with you with pleasure."
"Really?" regarding her closely, with what is decidedly more than admiration in his gaze. "Are there no recollections hidden in that song?"
"How can I tell? I never saw that particular edition before. Open it, and let us see," returns Molly, with a merry laugh. "Who knows what we may find between the pages?"
"If I might only believe you," he says, earnestly, still only half convinced. "Do you mean to tell me Luttrell spent an entire month with you, and left you heart-whole? I cannot believe it."
"Then don't," still laughing.