“You have been very kind to take so much trouble,” she said. “You were kinder than I deserved,—both of you.”
“Now,” said Dolly, when he sprang into the cab, and they turned away together,—"now for getting into the house as quietly as possible. No,” trying to speak cheerily, and as if their position was no great matter, “you must n't tremble, Mollie, and you mustn't cry. It is all over now, and everything is as commonplace and easy to manage as can be. You have been out, and have got the headache, and are going to bed. That is all. All the rest we must forget. Nothing but a headache, Mollie, and a headache is not much, so we won't fret about it. If it had been a heartache, and sin and shame and sorrow—but it isn't. But, Mollie,” they had already reached the house then, and stood upon the steps, and she turned to the girl and put a hand on each of her shoulders, speaking tremulously, “when you go up-stairs, kneel down by your bedside and say your prayers, and thank God that it is n't,—thank God that it is n't, with all your heart and soul.” And she kissed her cheek softly just as they heard Aimée coming down the hall to open the door.
“Dolly!” she exclaimed when she saw them, “where have you been? Griffith has been here since five, and now he is out looking for you. I had given you up entirely, but he would not. He fancied you had been delayed by something.”
“I have been delayed by something,” said Dolly, her heart failing her again. “And here is Mollie, with the headache. You had better go to bed, Mollie. How long is it since Grif left the house?”
“Scarcely ten minutes,” was the answer. “It is a wonder you did not meet him. Oh, Dolly!” ominously, “how unlucky you are!”
Dolly quite choked in her effort to be decently composed in manner.
“I am unlucky,” she said; and without saying more, she made her way into the parlor.
She took her hat off there and tossed it on the sofa, utterly regardless of consequences, and then dropped into her chair and looked round the room. It did not look as she had pictured it earlier in the day. Its cheerfulness was gone, and it looked simply desolate. The fire had sunk low in the grate, and the hearth was strewn with dead ashes;—somehow or other, everything seemed chilled and comfortless. She was too late for the brightness and warmth,—a few hours before it had been bright and warm, and Grif had been there waiting for her. Where was he now? She dropped her face on the arm of her chair with a sob of disappointed feeling and foreboding. What if he had seen them leave Ralph Gowan, and had gone home!
“It's too bad!” she cried. “It is cruel! I can't bear it! Oh, Grif, do come!” And her tears fell thick and fast.
Ten minutes later she started up with a little cry of joy and relief. That was his footstep upon the pavement, and before he had time to ring she was at the door. She could scarcely speak to him in her excitement.