All the evening Molly waited in despair. She dared not appear at dinner and arose the next morning after a sleepless night. For two or three hours she hovered about the telephone, hoping for word from Theodore. He would certainly ’phone her. He would tell her he was sorry for the way he had left her, for the way he had spoken to her. Even his mother noticed her pale face and extreme nervousness.
“What is it, dear?” asked Mrs. King, solicitously.
“Nothing, nothing—much,” answered Molly evasively.
Mrs. King hesitated before she ventured, “I thought I heard you and Theo talking excitedly last night. Molly, you musn’t quarrel with him.... You know the wish of my heart.... I need you, child, and so does he.”
Miss Merriweather knelt beside the gentle woman.
“He doesn’t care for me, dear!” she whispered.
For an instant she was impelled to speak of Jinnie, but realizing what a tremendous influence Theodore had over his mother, she dared not. Like her handsome son, Mrs. King worshipped genius, and Molly reluctantly admitted to herself that the girl possessed it.
“He’s young yet,” sighed the mother, “and he’s always so sweet to you, Molly. Some day he’ll wake up.... There, there, dearie, don’t cry!”
“I’m so unhappy,” sobbed Molly.