CHAPTER XXVII
“HAVEN’T YOU ANY SOUL?”
Whenever Molly Merriweather was mentioned to Theodore King, that young man felt a twinge in his conscience. His mother had taken him gently to task. Out of respect for Molly’s wishes she refrained from speaking of the girl’s affection for him, but cautioned him to be careful not to offend her companion.
“She’s very sensitive, you know, Theodore dear, and very good to me. I really don’t know what I’d do without her.”
“I was thoughtless!... I’ll do better, mother mine,” he smiled. “I’ll go to her now and tell her so.”
Theodore found Molly writing a letter in the library. He sank into an easy chair and yawned good-naturedly. The woman was still furious with him, so merely lifted her eyes at his entrance, and went on writing. Theodore was quiet for a few moments, then with a laugh went to the desk and took the pen forcibly from Molly’s hand.
“Come and make up,” he said.
“Have we anything to make up?” she asked languidly, keeping her eyes on the paper.