Cecil’s eyes flashed angrily, and Mrs. Laurens tossed her head in displeasure.
“She is well enough, only sulky,” she exclaimed.
Miss Barry laughed, easily.
“Ah, I see that you understand Molly thoroughly,” she said. “Her sulky fits used to be the bane of her mother as long as she lived, and of Aunt Lucy and myself after my step-mother’s death. She will do worse if you notice them, but if left to herself will become sensible after awhile.”
Doctor Charley gave her a keen look of displeasure which she pretended not to observe.
“I do not like you, Miss Cat-eyes,” he said to himself. “For all poor Molly’s treachery she is more lovable than you, and perhaps you have made the case worse than it really is. Some day when Molly gets well she shall tell me the whole story, but not now, for it would agitate her too much and that would be dangerous in her condition.”
He rose impatiently and left the room. Cecil looked after him angrily, knowing well that he was going straight to Molly.
“Confound the fellow! What has come over him to meddle like this in my affairs?” he thought.
Phebe opened the door gladly enough at his knock. She was getting worried over Molly, who had refused to speak one word since she had read that letter written in the height of Cecil’s resentful passion.
She was sitting, or rather, crouched, in a forlorn attitude upon the bed, her arms clasped around her knees, her curly hair falling in disheveled masses round her face and neck, her eyes staring gloomily into vacancy, her face pale and drawn with despair.