“One of the girls at the studio said he was making me ridiculous. And—I told Eustace. And—yesterday morning he wrote to tell me the girl was right—and—and——”
She was seized with a violent fit of coughing.
Betty’s brows were knit:
“What did you do, Moll?”
“Nothing.”
Betty drew the dainty head within her lap:
“Thou fool!” she said in French—it seemed less harsh, whilst just as true; and, after a while, she added in English:
“Thou poor mad fool, Moll!”
Moll was sobbing miserably.
Betty sat and soothed her, running her healing hand over the sobbing girl’s hair, and thinking: