"Her maid told mine," admitted Molly shamelessly. "Now if you are going to criticise my channels of information I'll remind you that Richelieu himself——"
"Oh, Molly! Molly! What a funny girl you are!" he said, laughing. "You're a sweet, loyal little thing, too—but there's no use—" His face became expressionless, almost haggard—"there's no use," he repeated under his breath.
Slowly, side by side, they walked out to the veranda, her hand resting lightly just within the crook of his arm, he, absent-mindedly filling his pipe.
"Strelsa likes you," she said.
"With all the ardour and devotion of a fish," he returned, coolly.
"Rix?"
"What?"
"Do you know," said Molly, thoughtfully, "she is a sort of a fish. She has the emotions of a mollusc as far as your sex is concerned. Some women are that way—more women than men would care to believe.... Do you know, Ricky, if you'll let us alone, it is quite natural for us to remain indifferent to considerations of that sort?"
She stood watching the young fellow busy with his pipe.
"It's only when you keep at us long enough that we respond," she said. "Some of us are quickly responsive; it takes many of us a long while to catch fire. Threatened emotion instinctively repels many of us—the more fastidious among us, the finer grained and more delicately nerved, are essentially reserved. Modesty, pride, a natural aloofness, are as much a part of many women as their noses and fingers——"