"My business was with your sister," returned Ingram, regaining his self-possession as he saw the girl's nervousness. "Your servant let me in exactly five-and-twenty minutes ago, and as I thought the household was asleep I was endeavouring to discover a bell; and then I heard singing,—
"'Let the toast pass;
Drink to the lass,'
Awfully good song that."
"Oh, dear," faltered Mollie—she would have liked to sink through the floor at that moment, to avoid that bright, quizzical glance; "that was father's song, not mine. Oh, I know now who you are. You are the gentleman whose pocket was picked yesterday."
"Exactly. Monsieur Blackie, at your service;" and then Mollie turned cold with dismay. Ann had let him in, and he had been in the studio, and Noel's absurd sketch was on the easel. He had recognised himself. And Mollie's confusion and misery were so great that in another minute she would have disgraced herself for ever by bursting into tears; only Ingram, fearing he had taken too great a liberty, hastened to explain matters.
"You see, Miss Ward, I was anxious to pay my debts, and thank your sister. If I remember rightly, I told her that I should call."
"Oh, yes; at least, Waveney was not sure that you would, and she had to go out."
"I should like to have seen her. Perhaps another time you will allow me——" Ingram reddened and hesitated.
"She may not be long. She has gone to Berkeley Square on business. Ah," as the bell rang, "that is Ann, so please will you go upstairs."
Mollie was not quite equal to the situation; she wanted to get rid of Monsieur Blackie, but he did not seem inclined to go; and Ingram took a mean advantage of her inexperience.