"What makes you say that?" asked Aliette; and as Julia did not reply, "Has he spoken to you--about my sister?"
"He has." Julia's voice was rather grim.
"And is--what we've done--going to make any difference?"
"I think not. But if it does," the suspicion of a twinkle gleamed in the blue eyes, "if it does, my dear, your sister will owe you a great debt of gratitude for--running away with my son. That kind of man," definitely, "is no use."
"I've been rather worried about Mollie," began Aliette, whose decision not to await her sister's return had been the most difficult of all the decisions she took in those few hours before she bolted from Lancaster Gate. "That letter of mine----"
She broke off the sentence, divining nevertheless that her letter--meant as a precise document--must have been incoherent to the last degree; divining how impossible a situation her selfishness must have created for Mollie. "I am selfish," she said to herself. "Utterly selfish! I deserve no consideration. And yet these two consider only me."
"Never mind about Mollie." Stubbornly--for now that his mother had joined forces with them it seemed more than ever necessary that they should bring Brunton swiftly to reason--Ronald Cavendish returned to his point. "The question is: When do I go up to town? In my opinion, the sooner the better. Once I have seen H. B., we shall at least know where we stand."
"And suppose," faltered Aliette, "suppose he refuses to see you?"
"He won't."
"Suppose he refuses to do anything?"