"Naughty Mr. Buscarlet!" says Molly, shaking a reproachful dainty-white finger at him. "And I believed you so harmless."
At this they both laugh so immoderately that presently the lawyer loses all patience, and, taking up his hat, rushes from the room in a greater rage than he could have thought possible, considering that one of his provocators bears a title.
They are still laughing when the others enter the room, and insist on learning the secret of their mirth. Tedcastle alone fails to enjoy it. He is distrait, and evidently oppressed with care. Seeing this, Molly takes heart of grace, and, crossing to his side, says, sweetly:
"Do you see how the day has cleared? That lovely sun is tempting me to go out. Will you take me for a walk?"
"Certainly,—if you want to go." Very coldly.
"But of course I do; and nobody has asked me to accompany them; so I am obliged to thrust myself on you. If"—with a bewitching smile—"you won't mind the trouble just this once, I will promise not to torment you again."
Through the gardens, and out into the shrubberies beyond, they go in silence, until they reach the open; then Molly says, laughing: "I know you are going to scold me about Mr. Potts. Begin at once, and let us get it over."
Her manner is so sweet, and she looks so gay, so fresh, so harmless, that his anger melts as dew beneath the sun.
"You need not have let him place his arm around you," he says, jealously.
"If I hadn't I should have slipped off the pedestal; and what did his arm signify in comparison with that? Think of my grandfather's face; think of mine; think of all the horrible consequences. I should have been sent home in disgrace, perhaps—who knows?—put in prison, and you might 'never, never, see your darling any more.'"