"Ah, call me Mollie!" the eloquent glance once more. "How good you are to me, Mr. Ingelow!"
Hugh Ingelow winced as if she had stabbed him.
"I'm a wretch—a brute—a heartless monster! That's what I am, Mollie, and you'll think so, too, some day—that's the worst of it. Don't wear that puzzled, frightened face, my darling! Heaven knows I would die for you!"
She took his hand and kissed it. Before either had time to speak, of course Mrs. Sharpe must happen in and spoil all.
But Hugh Ingelow, strange to say, looked rather relieved. His face had flushed hotly under that innocent kiss, and then grown deathly pale. He was very white when Mrs. Sharpe came in, and Mrs. Sharpe's sharp eyes saw it. The green glasses were gone.
"You look fit to die," observed Mrs. Susan Sharpe, eying him. "What's the matter?"
Mollie looked at him, then turned away. Had she been forward? Was he mortified?
She colored painfully, then slowly petrified to marble. But the young artist only laughed.
"Pining for you, Mrs. Sharpe. I only exist in the light of your eyes. By the way, where's the green spectacles?"
"In my pocket. Come!"