But she did believe it, nevertheless. No one who knew Sara could have looked into her eyes at that moment and doubted that she was speaking not only what she believed to be, but what she knew to be, the ugly truth.
Suddenly Molly crumpled up. As, between them, Garth and Sara hurried her away to the car, there was no longer anything of the regal young goddess about her. She was just a child—a tired, frightened child whose eyes had been suddenly opened to the quicksands whereon her feet were set, and, like a child, she turned instinctively and clung to the dear, familiar people from home, who were mercifully at hand to shield her when her whole world had suddenly grown new and strange and very terrible. . . .
On, on through the night roared the big car, with Garth bending low over the wheel in front, while, in the back-seat Molly huddled forlornly into the curve of Sara's arm.
A few questions had elicited the whole foolish story of Lester Kent's infatuation, and of the steps he had taken to enmesh poor simple-hearted Molly in the toils—first, by lending her money, then, when he found that the loan had scared her, by buying her pictures and surrounding her with an atmosphere of adulation which momentarily blinded her from forming any genuine estimate either of the value of his criticism or of the sincerity of his desire to purchase.
Once the head resting against Sara's shoulder was lifted, and a wistfully incredulous voice asked, very low—
“You are sure he is married, Sara,—quite sure?”
“Quite sure, Molly,” came the answer.
And later, as they were nearing home, Molly's hardly-bought philosophy of life revealed itself in the brief comment: “It's very easy to make a fool of oneself.”
“Probably Mr. Kent has found that out—by this time,” replied Sara with a grim flash of humour.
A faint, involuntary chuckle in response premised that ultimately Molly might be able to take a less despondent view of the night's proceedings.