Molly is still petting her wounded member when Luttrell reaches her side.
"What is the matter with you?" he asks, with odious want of sympathy. "Have you been crying?"
"No," replies Molly, indignant at his tone,—so unlike Shadwell's. "Why should you think so?"
"Why? Because your eyes are red; and certainly as I came up, Shadwell appeared to be doing his utmost to console you."
"Anything the matter with you, Teddy?" asks Miss Massereene, with suspicious sweetness. "You seem put out."
"Yes,"—sternly,—"and with cause. I do not relish coming upon you suddenly and finding you in Shadwell's arms."
"Where?"
"Well, if not exactly in his arms, very nearly there," says Tedcastle, vehemently.
"You are forgetting yourself." Coldly. "If you are jealous of Philip, say so, but do not disgrace yourself by using coarse language. There was a bit of bark in my eyes. I suppose you think it would have been better for me to endure torments than allow Philip—who was very kind—to take it out? If you do, I differ from you."
"I am not speaking alone of this particular instance in which you seem to favor Shadwell," says the young man, moodily, his eyes fixed upon the sward beneath him. "Every day it grows more palpable. You scarcely care to hide your sentiments now."