Chapter Five.
An Invitation.
The old man fell backward on the seat with an exclamation of keenest surprise. His sunken eyes stared into Mollie’s face as she bent over him; at the golden hair curling beneath the dark toque, the grey eyes, the curving lips. Each feature in turn was scrutinised as if he were searching for something familiar which had so far escaped notice. Apparently it was not discovered, for the expression of amazement deepened upon his face, and he asked sharply—
“What did you say? What did you call me? I don’t understand what you can mean!”
Mollie sat down on the bench, and smiled brightly into his face.
“Uncle Bernard! You are Uncle Bernard Farrell! I knew you the moment you said that you were going to Number 7, and asked if I knew the Connors. Of course I know them, because I am—” She hesitated, and Mr Farrell finished the sentence for her.
“You are one of Mr Connor’s daughters. The eldest, I presume. I have not the pleasure of knowing your name.”
“No-o! I am not Trix. She is a child, only fifteen. I was nineteen on my last birthday. I am,”—for once in her life Mollie had the grace to blush, and looked a trifle discomposed—“I’m Mollie Farrell.”
The glance which the old man cast upon her was the reverse of flattering.
“You are Mollie Farrell, are you?” he repeated coldly. “Evidently modesty is not one of your failings, young lady. It might have been wiser if you had allowed me to discover your attractions for myself. Do you consider it quite honest—we will not discuss the question of good taste—to play a double part, and criticise your relations to any stranger whom you may meet in your walks?”