"I think it was nervousness," answered Molly evasively.
But the girls began to realize that it was not entirely nervousness. It occurred to them now that Molly had been preoccupied and strangely silent for some time. Occasionally she gave way to forced gaiety. Twice she had started on walks, changed her mind and come back, without giving any excuse except that she was a little tired. It was, in fact, a condition that had come about so gradually that they were hardly aware they had noticed it until this sudden breakdown.
"She's dead tired and ought to get to bed this minute," remarked Nance, caressing her friend's hand.
"Dearest Molly," said Jessie, who was moved by a gentle sympathy always for those in trouble, "go to bed and get a good rest. It was just nice and human of you to get mad once in a thousand years and we love you all the better for it."
They were good friends, all of them, Molly felt, as they kissed her or pressed her hand good-night, while Nance and Judy hastened to clear off the divan and put up the windows to blow out the heavy, incense-scented air.
It was Otoyo, however, who brought the tears back to poor Molly's eyes.
"Dear, beautiful Mees Brown," she said. "You must not think it will come wrong. It will come right, I feel, surelee."
"What is it, Nance?" whispered Judy, after they had got their friend to bed.
Nance shook her head.
"Heaven knows," she answered. "But it's something, and it must be serious, Judy, or she never would have let go like that."