"Why, Mollie!" she exclaimed, as she entered the room, "it is quite a transformation scene!"
And, indeed, the shabby old studio looked wonderfully bright and cosy. The round table had been moved to the other side of the room, and Mollie's pretty couch, and a low table that Ingram had sent for her use, were placed between the fireplace and window, and a bowl of Neapolitan violets was beside her. There were flowers everywhere, and as for Mollie,—"Oh, you dear thing! how sweet you look!" remarked Waveney, with a hug.
And, indeed, Mollie had never looked more lovely. Nurse Helena had fastened two little pink rosebuds in the lace at her throat, and their soft, delicate tint just matched Mollie's cheeks; she had a tiny gold vinaigrette in her hand, which she showed Waveney.
"It came this morning, with the flowers," she said, rather shyly.
Waveney looked at it silently. "M. W." was engraved on it.
"Is it not beautiful, Wave? But I wish—I wish he had not sent it."
When luncheon was over, Everard walked with Waveney to the door of the Hospital. He had a tiring afternoon's work before him. By tacit consent, neither of them spoke much of Ingram's visit.
"I hope it will not tire Mollie too much," was all Waveney said. And once Everard hazarded the observation that Ingram was sure to be punctual.