“And who—or what—is Lester Kent?”
“He's—he's an artist—by choice. I mean,” stumbled Molly, “that he's quite well off—he only paints for pleasure. He often runs down from town for a month or two at a time and takes out a temporary membership for our club.”
“And he has lent you this money?”
“Yes”—rather shamefacedly.
“Well, he must be paid back at once. At once, do you understand? I will give you the twenty pounds—you're not to bother your father about it.”
“Oh, Sara! You are a blessed duck!”
In an instant Molly's cares had slipped from her shoulders, and she beamed across at her deliverer with the most disarming gratitude.
“Wait a moment,” continued Sara firmly. “You must never borrow from Mr. Kent—or any one else—again.”
“Oh, I won't! Indeed, I won't!” Molly was fervent in her assurances. “I've been wretched over this. Although”—brightening—“Lester Kent was really most awfully nice about it. He said it didn't matter one bit.”
“Did he indeed?” Sara spoke rather grimly. “And how old is this Lester Kent?”