Presently Molly enters, her eyelids pink, the corners of her mouth forlornly curved, a general despondency in her whole demeanor.
Cecil, scarcely more composed, advances to meet her.
"Why, Molly!" she says, pathetically.
"You have been crying," says Molly, in the same breath, throwing herself into her arms.
"I have indeed, my dear," confesses Cecil, in a lachrymose tone, and then she begins to cry again, and Molly follows suit, and for the next five minutes they have a very comfortable time of it together.
Then they open their hearts to each other and relate fluently, as only a woman can, all the intolerable wrongs and misjudgment they have undergone at the hands of their lovers.
"To accuse me of anything so horrible!" says Molly, indignantly. "Oh, Cecil! I don't believe he could care for me one bit and suspect me of it."
"'Care for you!' Nonsense, my dear! he adores you. That is precisely why he has made such a fool of himself. You know—
Trifles light as air,
Are to the jealous confirmations strong