Something—he scarce knew what, but most probably that sullen misery that was so new, so bitter, and so humiliating—drove him to her side. Slipping noiselessly from the luxurious hammock he stole around the tree and sat down by her side, touching the bowed head lightly with his hand, and murmuring with uncontrollable fondness:
“Louise!”
Molly gave a great, frightened start and whirled around.
“Oh, it’s you, Cecil Laurens, is it? Well, then, what do you want?” she demanded, wrathfully, angered because he had caught her in distress.
For once he was not angered at her sharp retort. He comprehended now something of what she was enduring, and made patient allowance for her pain.
“Do not be angry, Louise. I want nothing only to tell you how sorry I am for you, and how gladly I would help you in your trouble,” he said so gently that she stared at him in amazement, although she said brusquely:
“Trouble! I have no trouble!”
“Ah, Louise, you can not deceive me any longer. Look yonder! I was in that hammock just now and saw your companion, also heard some of his words!”
“Spy!” she exclaimed indignantly, although she grew pale and trembled like the leaves on the tree above her head.
Again he put a stern guard on himself, and would not resent her rudeness.