“Take me away, then, to a home of my own, where none can interfere with my choice of a servant.”
He answered instantly, with offensive hauteur:
“Under the present circumstances, such a course would not be agreeable!”
He turned away and stood at the window, with his back to her, determined not to be moved by the sight of the little hands writhing in and out of each other in her lap, and the face with its expression of dumb, patient agony, while hot tears stole from under her lashes and dripped down her cheeks.
The door opened, and his proud, stately mother entered with her graceful, gliding motion. She frowned when she saw poor Molly sitting there with the tears stealing down her cheeks.
“If you are ill, Mrs. Laurens, perhaps I had better assist you to your room,” she said, with pointed courtesy.
Molly shook her head without reply, and Cecil turned around.
“She is not ill, mother; she is angry,” he said, sharply.
“Angry?”
“Yes. I have been telling her that Phebe must go, and she objects.”