The door opened and closed; Ruth rose wearily, and laid her hand on Mollie’s shoulder. Such a charming face was lifted to meet her glance—so fresh, so bright, full of such dazzling youth and vigour! True, Mollie had been lazing all the evening while the others worked; but as Ruth stood looking down at her she wondered for the hundredth time how it was that so little was made of Mollie’s beauty in comparison with her own.
The golden hair rippled back in a thick, soft wave; the grey eyes were large, and generously lashed; the laughing lips parted, to show white, even, little teeth; yet a stranger, looking for the first time at Mollie Farrell, rarely remarked upon her good looks.
“What a nice girl! What a dear girl! What a delightful creature!” they cried, according to their different degrees of enthusiasm. They wanted to know her, to have her for a friend, and forgot to think of mere outward appearance.
“What a noise you have been making, Ruth!” said Mollie lazily. “I can’t think why you can’t be quiet when you get a chance! This book is too exciting for words. I told you how the lovers quarrelled just after they were married, and he went abroad, thinking, of course, that she didn’t love him any more; while, of course, she simply adored the ground he trod on, but thought that he had grown tired of her, while he was more madly in—”
Ruth gave an exclamation of impatience.
“Oh, what rubbish! I don’t believe such things are possible! If they really loved each other, do you suppose they could keep on pretending while they lived together every day, and when it came to saying good-bye into the bargain? Nonsense! She’d break down and howl, and he would comfort her, and take off his coat. Look here, Mollie—go to bed! I’ve waited all the evening to have a talk with mother, and you are the only impediment left. Take your book with you if you like,—but go!”
Mollie rose, unwillingly enough.
“I know what you want to talk about,” she said, looking into Ruth’s face. “I know; and it’s not a mite of use. Mother won’t let you leave home; she needs you far too much. I shan’t go to sleep, for I shall want to hear every single word when you come upstairs. I’ll snoodle up to the hot bottle, and read till you come.”
The programme sounded very attractive,—to snoodle up to the hot bottle, and lie at ease reading an interesting book,—much more attractive than to linger downstairs by the dying fire, and discuss disagreeable problems with an anxious mother. But Ruth did not waver in her decision, and a few moments later Mrs Connor was caught paying a round of visits to the children’s bedrooms—“just in time,” as Ruth thought whimsically, “to waken the poor souls from their first sleep!”—and escorted back to the chair which Mollie had vacated.
“Is anything wrong, dear?” she asked nervously. Poor little woman, if a surprise were in store, it seemed so much more likely that it should be disagreeable rather than bright! “You don’t feel feverish, or ill, or—”