"You mean Chrysos," said Molly.
"Yes.... Don't you think so?"
"She's little more than a child.... I don't know. Men are that way—men of Sir Charles's age and experience are likely to drift that way.... But if you are done with Sir Charles, what he does no longer interests me—except that the Lacys will become insufferable if——"
"Don't talk that way, dear."
"I don't like the family—except Chrysos."
"Then be glad for her—if it comes true.... Sir Charles is a dear—almost too perfectly ideal to be a man.... I do wish it for his sake.... He was a little unhappy over me I think."
"He adores you still, you little villain!" whispered Molly, fondling her. "But—let poets sing and romancers rave—there's nothing that starves as quickly as love. And Sir Charles has been long fasting—good luck to him and more shame on you!"
Strelsa laughed, cleared her brow and eyes of the soft bright hair, and, flinging out both arms, took Molly to her heart in a swift, hard embrace.
"There!" she said, breathless, "I adore you anyhow, Molly.... I feel better, too. I'm glad you talked to me.... Do you think I'll get anything for my house?"
"Yes, when you sell it. That's the hopeless part of it just at this time of year——"