“Why, child, he can’t help but love you,” she insisted. “He knows how much I depend on you.... I’d have had you with me long before if your father hadn’t needed you.... Shall I speak to Theodore?”
“No, no––” gasped Molly, and she ran from the room.
Under the tall trees she paced for many minutes. How could she wait until dinner—until he came home? She felt her pride ebbing away as she watched the sun cross the sky. The minutes seemed hours long. Molly went swiftly into the house. First assuring herself no one was within hearing distance, she paused before the telephone, longing, yet scarcely daring to use it. Then she took off the receiver and called Theodore’s number. His voice, deep, low and thrilling, answered her.
“It’s I, Theo,” she said faintly.... “Molly.”
“Yes,” he answered, but that was all.
He gave her no encouragement, no opening, but in desperation she uttered,
“Theodore, I’m sorry!... Oh, I’m so sorry!... Won’t you forgive me?”
There was silence on the wire for an appreciable length of time.
“Theodore?” murmured Molly once more.
“Yes.”