“Sir Thomas is his uncle.”
“Of course. So he is,” said Molly dryly. “I forgot. That would account for it, wouldn’t it?”
Mr. McEachern looked at her with some concern. There was a hard ring in her voice which he did not altogether like. His greatest admirer had never called him an intuitive man, and he was quite at a loss to see what was wrong. As a schemer he was perhaps, a little naive. He had taken it for granted that Molly was ignorant of the manoeuvres which had been going on, and which had culminated that afternoon in a stammering proposal of marriage from Lord Dreever in the rose-garden. This, however, was not the case. The woman incapable of seeing through the machinations of two men of the mental calibre of Sir Thomas Blunt and Mr. McEachern has yet to be born. For some considerable time Molly had been alive to the well-meant plottings of that worthy pair, and had derived little pleasure from the fact. It may be that woman loves to be pursued, but she does not love to be pursued by a crowd.
Mr. McEachern cleared his throat and began again.
“You shouldn’t decide a question like that too hastily, my dear.”
“I didn’t—not too hastily for Lord Dreever, at any rate, poor dear.”
“It was in your power,” said Mr. McEachern portentously, “to make a man happy.”
“I did,” said Molly, bitterly. “You should have seen his face light up. He could hardly believe it was true for a moment, and then it came home to him, and I thought he would have fallen on my neck. He did his very best to look heartbroken—out of politeness—but it was no good. He whistled most of the way back to the house—all flat, but very cheerfully.”
“My dear! What do you mean?”
Molly had made the discovery earlier in their conversation that her father had moods whose existence she had not suspected. It was his turn now to make a similar discovery regarding herself.