ce of mind to be upset
on their account; she had done with that sentimental nonsense long ago.
Her illness had made a great space between her present self and the
Molly who had been so foolishly upset by the discovery of Edmund
Grosse's treachery. Curiously enough Molly had never doubted of that
treachery, although it was one of the horrors that had come out of the
doubtful, and probably mythical, tin box.

By the way, there was a little pile of tin boxes in a small unfurnished
room upstairs, next to Molly's bedroom, of which she kept the key. She
had had no time to look at them yet. Some of them came from Florence,
and two or three from her own flat. They were of all shapes and sizes,
and piled one on another. But from the moment when Molly turned that
very ordinary key in the lock of the unfurnished dressing-room she never
let her thoughts dwell for long on the possible delusions of delirium.
Her mind had entered into another phase in which it was of supreme
importance to think only of the details of each day as they came before
her.

CHAPTER XXV

MOLLY AT COURT

If any of us, going to dress quietly in an ordinary bedroom, were told:
"It is the last time you will have just that amount of comfort, that
degree of luxury, to which you have been accustomed; it is the last time
you will have your evening clothes put out for you; the last time your
things will be brushed; the last time hot water will be brought to your
room; the last time that your dressing-gown will have come out of the
cupboard without your taking it out"--we might have an odd mixture of
sensations. We might be very sad--ridiculously sad--and yet have a sense
of being braced, a whiff of open air in the mental atmosphere.

Edmund Grosse did not expect in future to draw his own hot water, or put
out his own dressing-gown, but he did know that he had come to the last
night of having a valet of his own, the last night in which the perfect
Dawkins, who had been with him ten years, would do him perfect bodily
service. Everything to-night was done in the most punctilious manner,
and it seemed appropriate that this last night should be a full-dress
affair.

Sir Edmund was going to Court (the first Court held in May), and his
deputy lieutenant's uniform was laid on the bed. Edmund might not have
taken the trouble to go, but a kindly message from a very high place as
to his troubles had made him feel it a more gracious response to do so.
The valet w