“Molly dear,” she said, “I've come to take you home.”
At that Molly started up, broad awake in an instant.
“You? How did you come here?” she stammered. Then, realization waking in her eyes: “But I'm not coming back with you. We've only stopped for petrol. Lester's outside, somewhere, seeing about it now. We're driving back to the car.”
“Yes, I know. But you're not going on with Mr. Kent”—very gently—“you're coming home with us.”
Molly drew herself up, flaring passionate young defiance, talking glibly of love, and marriage, and living her own life—all the beautiful, romantic nonsense that comes so readily to the soft lips of youth, the beckoning rose and gold of sunrise—and of mirage—which is all youth's untrained eyes can see.
Sara was getting desperate. The time was flying. At any moment Kent might return. Garth signaled to her from the doorway.
“You must tell her,” he said gruffly. “If Kent returns before we go, we shall have a scene. Get her away quick.”
Sara nodded. Then she came back to Molly's side.
“My dear,” she said pitifully. “You can never marry Lester Kent, because—because he has a wife already.”
“I don't believe it!” The swift denial leaped from Molly's lips.