“Gracious, Moll!” cried she, glancing at the litter of the untidy place, “we must be quick!”
She had shut the door behind her when she entered; she now went back and locked it.
Moll Davenant rose from the bed with the sudden and feverish energy of a consumptive, and ran to Betty—the shadow of death gone from her haggard face—the hunted look departed from her great glowing eyes—a flush of delight painting the pallid features. She flung her arms about Betty:
“Thank Heaven, you are come, Betty—I was at my wits’ end.”
Betty gently unlocked the girl’s embrace:
“Come, Molly,” said she, taking off her gloves and jacket—“there’s no time to lose—they’ll be here in an hour. Gracious! What confusion!”
She laughed gaily.
Moll Davenant looked about her helplessly.
Betty kissed her:
“Come along, Molly—where are the fineries? We’ll start with the sommier.”