"Now, how could you?" says Molly. "I am quite twenty yards ahead of you, and must have seen them come round this corner first. Now, what shall I get, I wonder? Something worth getting, I do hope."
"'Blessed are they that expect nothing, for they shall not be disappointed,'" says Mr. Potts, moodily, who is as gloomy as the day. "I expect nothing."
"You are jealous," retorts Molly. "Sour grapes,"—making a small moue at him. "But you have no claim upon this luck; it is all my own. Let nobody for a moment look upon it as his or hers."
"You are welcome to it. I don't envy you," says Cecil, little thinking how prophetic are her words.
They continue their walk and their interrupted thoughts,—the latter leading them in all sorts of contrary directions,—some to love, some to hate, some to cold game-pie and dry champagne.
As they enter the hall at Herst, one of the footmen steps forward and hands Molly an ugly yellow envelope.
"Why, here is my luck, perhaps!" cries she, gayly. "How soon it has come! Now, what can be in it? Let us all guess."
She is surprised, and her cheeks have flushed a little. Her face is full of laughter. Her sweet eyes wander from one to another, asking them to join in her amusement. No thought, no faintest suspicion of the awful truth occurs to her, although only a thin piece of paper conceals it from her view.
"A large fortune, perhaps," says Sir Penthony; while the others close round her, laughing, too. Only Luttrell stands apart, calmly indifferent.
"Or a proposal. That would just suit the rapid times in which we live."