But for some reason Jim had darted a glance into Molly’s eyes, and Molly thought she read disapproval in it. It seemed to her that he did not quite approve of her. But she could not long entertain that feeling, for she was always satisfied with herself. In a few minutes the whole five were laughing and talking, playing games, passing jests backwards and forwards as though there were no invalid mother in the world, no duties in the world to be performed, no naughty Nesta not very far off.
“Now,” said Clara, “we must be trotting home, and you may as well walk back with us.”
“Are you certain you can be spared?” said Jim.
“Yes, I’m positive,” said Molly; “but to make sure I’ll go in and see Susan.”
Molly went into the house; but she did not go to Susan. She would be too much afraid to inquire of Susan, who, with all her good nature, could be cross enough at times, that is, when she thoroughly disapproved of the young ladies’ racketings, as she called them.
What Molly really did was to slip up to her own bedroom, put on her most becoming hat, catch up her white parasol, take up a similar parasol and hat for Ethel, with a pair of gloves for each, and rush swiftly downstairs. No one heard her enter the house, and no one heard her go downstairs again.
“Thanks,” said Ethel, when she saw her hat with its accompanying pins, observed the parasol, and welcomed the gloves. “Is mother all right?” she said.
“Yes, she is having a lovely sleep. Now do let us come along.”
“You may as well stay and have a game of tennis,” said Jim, who after Molly’s return to the house concluded that things must be all right.
“Yes, that would be splendid,” said Clara, “and you could stay to supper if you liked.”