"Partly," said Molly. She put up an impatient hand and removed her hat. Her hair shone gloriously in the sunlight that fell chequered through the overarching trees.
"I want to talk to you seriously, Lord Wyverton," she said.
"I am quite serious," he assured her.
There followed a brief silence. Molly's eyes travelled beyond him and rested upon the plodding horses in the hay-field.
"I have heard," she said at length, "that men and women in your position don't always marry for love."
Wyverton's brows drew together into a single, hard, uncompromising line. "I suppose there are such people to be found in every class," he said.
Molly's eyes returned from the hay-field and met his look steadily. "I like you best when you don't frown," she said. "I am not trying to insult you."
His brows relaxed, but he did not smile. "I am sure of that," he said, courteously. "Please continue."
Molly leaned slightly forward. "I think one should be honest at all times," she said, "at whatever cost. Lord Wyverton, Phyllis isn't in love with you at all. She cares for Jim Freeman, the doctor's assistant—an awfully nice boy; and he cares for her. But, you see, you are rich, and we are so frightfully poor; and mother is often ill, chiefly because there isn't enough to provide her with what she needs. And so Phyllis felt it would be almost wicked to refuse your offer. Perhaps you won't understand, but I hope you will try. If it weren't for Jim, I would never have told you. As it is—I have been wondering—"
She broke off abruptly and suddenly covered her face with her two hands in a stillness so tense that the man beside her marvelled.