"No, whisker. He was clean-shaven, all but the moustache. I suppose you
know he was in Ted's regiment for some time?"

"So he told me."

"I wonder what he _hasn't_ told you? Shall I confess, Molly, that
I know your secret, and that it was I chose that diamond ring upon your
finger? There, do not grudge me your confidence; I have given you mine
and anything I have heard is safe with me. Oh, what a lovely blush, and
what a shame to waste such a charming bit of color upon me! Keep it for
dessert."

"How will Sir Penthony like Mr. Lowry's close proximity?" Molly asks,
presently, when she has confessed a few interesting little facts to her
friend.

"I hope he won't like it. If I thought I could make him jealous I would
flirt with poor Talbot under his nose," says Cecil, with eloquent
vulgarity. "I feel spitefully toward him somehow, although our
separation was my own contrivance."

"Have you a headache, dear?" Seeing her put her hand to her head.

"A slight one,--I suppose from the nerves. I think I will lie down for
an hour or two before commencing the important task of arming for
conquest. And--are you going out, Molly? Will you gather me a few fresh
flowers--anything white--for my hair and the bosom of my dress?"

"I will," says Molly, and, having made her comfortable with pillows and
perfumes, leaves her to her siesta.

"Anything white." Molly travels the gardens up and down in search of
all there is of the loveliest. Little rosebuds, fresh though late, and
dainty bells, with sweet-scented geraniums and drooping heaths,--a pure
and innocent bouquet.

Yet surely it lacks something,--a little fleck of green, to throw out
its virgin fairness. Above, high over her head, a creeping rosebush
grows, bedecked with palest, juiciest leaves.

Reaching up her hand to gather one of the taller branches, a mote, a
bit of bark--some hateful thing--falls into Molly's right eye. Instant
agony is the result. Tears stream from the offended pupil; the other
eye joins in the general tribulation; and Molly, standing in the centre
of the grass-plot, with her handkerchief pressed frantically to her
face, and her lithe body swaying slightly to and fro through force of
pain, looks the very personification of woe.

So thinks Philip Shadwell as, coming round the corner, he unperceived
approaches.

"What is it?" he asks, trying to see her face, his tones absolutely
trembling from agitation on her behalf. "Molly, you are in trouble.