Whoever the intruder may be, he, she, or it, is without light; no truth-compelling ray illumines the gloom; and presently, after a slight hesitation, the door is closed again, and the footsteps go lightly, cautiously away through the hall, leaving them once more alone in the long, dark, ghostly drawing-room.
Molly draws her hand hurriedly away, and moving quietly from Luttrell's side, breathes a sigh, half relief, half embarrassment; while he, groping his way to the writing-table, finds a match, and, striking it, throws light upon the scene again.
At the same moment Molly emerges from the curtains, with a heightened color, and eyes, sweet but shamed, that positively refuse to meet his.
"I suppose I can trust you—to—say nothing of all this?" she murmurs, unsteadily.
"I suppose you can." Haughtily.
His heart is still throbbing passionately; almost, he fears, each separate beat can be heard in the oppressive stillness.
"Good-night," says Molly, slowly.
"Good-night."
Shyly, and still without meeting his gaze, she holds out her hand. He takes it softly, reverently, and, emboldened by the gentleness of her expression, says impulsively:
"Answer me a last question, darling,—answer me—Are you going to marry Philip?"