"Very well," says Molly, obediently; and when they have said good-bye for the fifth time, he really takes his departure.
How to reveal her weighty secret to Letitia troubles Molly much,—an intimate acquaintance with her sister-in-law's character causing her to know its disclosure will be received not only with discouragement, but with actual disapproval. And yet—disclose it she must.
But how to break it happily. Having thought of many ways and means, and rejected them all, she decides, with a sigh, that plain speaking will be best.
"Letitia," she says, this very evening,—Luttrell having been gone some hours,—"do you know Signor Marigny's address?"
She is leaning her elbows on the writing-table, and has let her rounded chin sink into her palms' embrace; while her eyes fix themselves steadily upon the pen, the paper, anything but Letitia.
"Signor Marigny! Your old singing-master? No. Why do you ask, dear?"
"Because I want to write to him."
"Do you? And what——? No, I have not got his address; I don't believe I ever had it. How shall you manage?"
"I dare say I have it somewhere myself; don't trouble," says Molly, knowing guiltily it lies just beneath her hand within the table-drawer. She is glad of a respite, Letitia having forborne to press the question.
Not for long, however; human nature can stand a good many things, but curiosity conquers most.