vered the miniature of her dead husband in his
uniform with her small fan before she admitted Molly.

By some strange impulse, Molly had attached herself to Rose during the
rest of that Easter Sunday. Curiosity, admiration, or jealousy might
have accounted for Molly's doing this. To herself it seemed merely part
of her determination to face the position without fear or fancies. If
Lady Rose found out later with whom she had spent those hours, at least
she should not think that Molly had been embarrassed. Perhaps, too, Sir
Edmund's efforts to keep them apart made her more anxious to be with
her.

Having been kindly welcomed to Rose's room, Molly found herself slightly
embarrassed; they seemed to have used up all common topics during the
day, and Molly was certainly not prepared to be confidential.

The entrance of the hostess came as a relief. That lady, without
glancing at Rose or Molly as she came into the middle of the room,
banged the candlestick down on a small table, and then threw herself
into an arm-chair, which gave a creak of sympathy in response to her
loud sigh.

"It is perfectly disgraceful!" she said, "and now I don't really know
what has happened. On Easter Sunday night, too!"

Molly had been standing by the window, looking out on the moonlit park.
She now leaned further across the wide window-seat, so that her slight,
sea-green silk-clad figure might not be obtrusive, and the dark keen
face was turned away for the same purpose.

"That woman has actually," Lady Groombridge went on, "been playing cards
in the smoking-room on Easter Sunday night with Billy and those two
boys. What Groombridge will say, I can't conceive; it is perfectly
disgraceful!"

"Have they been playing for much?"

"Oh, for anything, I suppose; and Edmund Grosse says that the boy from
the Parsonage has lost any amount to Billy. They have fleeced him in the
most disgraceful way."

There was a long silence. Rose looked utterly distressed.

"If he had only refused to play," she said at last, as if she wished to
return in imagination to a happier state of things.

"It's no use saying that now," said Lady Groombridge, with an air of
ineffable wisdom.

Molly Dexter bit her tiny evening handkerchief, and her grey eyes
laughed at the moonlight.

"Well, Rose, I can't say you are much comfort to me," the hostess went
on presently, with a dawn of humour on her countenance as she crossed
one leg over the other.

"But, my dear, wha