But Blanche had come there with a very definite purpose in her mind. She had come to learn all she could from Molly of the man who had taken her into the Hartspool dance. But she was too much a woman for that to be the whole object that had entailed many miles in the saddle over a territory that was without trail or track of any sort. No. Her visit was for the girl’s sake, too, and for the sake of the gossip and happy chatter of the glorious time she had helped to provide her with.
But Blanche was foredoomed to disappointment. Molly’s dispiritedness was so intensely real that she became more gravely concerned than she knew. It was not that Molly was not ready to talk of the dance. On the contrary she talked of it almost too eagerly. It was not that her smile was lacking. But to Blanche neither her talk nor her smile were such as she had looked for. There was no spontaneity in either. They were both the result of obvious effort. They lacked all naturalness. And all the time there was something looking out of the girl’s eyes that intrigued and troubled her, and left her wondering.
Blanche was again sitting in George Marton’s chair. She was sitting up in her neat riding-suit, with her hands held out to the warmth of the stove in spite of the summer heat. Molly was preparing the midday meal for her guest, neglecting nothing, meticulous in her care that the meal should be the best she could provide for her new friend.
“Is this Andy of yours a good dancer, Molly?”
Blanche was observing the figure bending over the stove. She was watching, with the closest interest, the girl’s care in her work. When she put her apparently casual question she saw the bending figure start. Then, as it straightened itself up, she realised that the hand grasping the pepper-box, with which she was seasoning the jack-rabbit stew was trembling. Instantly a mental reservation warned her where lay the key to Molly’s grievous mood.
The girl steadied herself with an effort. Then she laughed a little uncertainly.
“Why, I guess he’s no sort of dancer,” she said. “But then,” she added quickly, “I wouldn’t know the diff’rence. You see, I haven’t learnt any swell dancing. I just sort of know the things you do at ‘sociables.’”
Blanche’s laugh came readily.
“I guess you don’t need to be a swell dancer to have a time. If your boy’s right, and you’re looking good, and the folks are all in to enjoy things, the dancing doesn’t matter a deal. This Andy—you didn’t say his other name to me—he’s a farmer like you?”
There was a moment of hesitation before Molly replied. It almost seemed as though she had forgotten the stew on the stove. She was still grasping the pepper-box, but a far-away, unsmiling look was in the sad eyes, that were turned upon the sunlight pouring in through the open window.