"Why are you writing to Signor Marigny?" Letitia asks, in a gentle tone of indifference, after a full five minutes' pause, during which she has been devoured with a desire to know.
"Because I believe he will help me," says Molly, slowly. "I have been thinking, Letty,—thinking very seriously,—and I have decided upon making my fortune—our fortune—out of my voice."
"Molly!"
"Well, dear, and why not? Do not dishearten me, Letty; you know we must live, and what other plan can you suggest?"
"In London I thought perhaps we might get something to do,"—mournfully,—"and there no one would hear of us. I have rather a fancy for millinery, and one of those large establishments might take me, while you could go as a daily governess," regarding her sister doubtfully.
"Governess! oh, no! The insipidity, the drudgery of it, would kill me. I should lose sight of the fact that I was my own mistress in such genteel slavery. Besides, as a concert singer (and I can sing), I should earn as much in one night, probably, as I should otherwise in a year."
"Oh, Molly!"—clasping her hands—"I cannot bear to think of it. It is horrible; the publicity,—the dreadful ordeal. And you of all others,—my pretty Molly——"
"It is well I am pretty," says Molly, with a supreme effort at calmness; "they say a pretty woman with a voice takes better."
"Every word you say only convinces me more and more how cruel a task it would be. And Molly, darling, I know he would not wish it."
"I think he would wish me to do my duty," says Molly, gazing with great tearless eyes through the window into space, while her slender fingers meet and twine together nervously. "Letitia, why cannot you be thankful, as I am, that I have a voice,—a sure and certain provision?—because I know I can sing as very few can. (I say this gratefully, and without any vanity.) Why, without it we might starve."