Molly dressed slowly, the spell of her dreaming still upon her, haunting her like a half-remembered voice. At the breakfast-table she found three letters beside her plate.
"You seem to be a woman of affairs, my dear," said Mrs. Travers, eyeing the letters greedily from her end of the table. The dame had finished her breakfast some time before, but, having examined the three envelopes carefully, curiosity about their contents kept her in her place.
When Molly saw Hemming's handwriting,—and on the stationery of a London club at that,—she leaned back, and for the flight of a dozen heart-beats kept her eyes tight shut, and her hands clinched on the arms of the chair.
"My dear, what is the matter?" cried her mother, in tones of surprised concern. She, too, had recognized the writing, however.
"I felt dizzy—just for a moment," answered Molly. Then she opened the letter. She read it again and again, making nothing of it, save that he was in London, had come there to see her, and was going away again. Love of her had brought him, but why should he go away? What had Major Anderson to do with it? Now her heart pulsed joy through her veins, and now fear,—and they both hurt. Then came the fearful, humiliating question,—could it be that her uncle had sent for him?
"What has that shameless adventurer written to you?" asked Mrs. Travers, purple with curiosity, and with fear that the chances for her daughter to marry a fortune were ruined.
"What shameless adventurer?" cried Molly, looking up with flashing eyes.
"Herbert Hemming."
"How do you know the letter is from Herbert Hemming?"
"I—I happened to notice the handwriting."