Mollie frowned, and glued her ear closer.
Lack-a-day! She could hear little, and was so intent on courting better success that she fell back with a squeal when a hand caught her shoulder.
Sir Stephen Berrington was laughing.
"Come, chick," he gibed. "We'll have to dub you Mistress of the Keyhole, instead of honest men's hearts. There! don't change colour. I'll not betray you if you run straight away, and cook me an omelette of chickens' livers for a snack before I start for Brighton. And, hark ye, my pretty, a bottle of port as crusty as your father's temper to drink your health in."
Mollie needed no second bidding, for, sure, that Lord Denningham would not have spared her had he known of her curiosity, and Peter Cooling had a strap which he was not too tender a parent to use across an erring daughter's fair shoulders.
Nevertheless, Mollie's cheeks were aflame and her brown eyes sparkling with truly righteous indignation.
Morice Conyers had not thought of eavesdroppers when he made that last speech of his. Loyalty to conviction as well as King makes great demands on one at times. Mollie, the innkeeper's daughter, was something near a lady by instinct just now, and ready to make a mighty sacrifice at the call of honour.
Her reputation as the best omelette maker in England might be at stake, yet she never hesitated more than a second at the kitchen door before she thrust her head inside, bidding the serving-wench put aside kettle-scrubbing, and see to the execution of Sir Stephen's order.
La! there would be some swearing upstairs unless Jenny could rise to the occasion beyond expectations. But what signified a burnt omelette compared with the business in hand?
Mollie, rosier than ever with haste, stood at the parlour door.