father had moods whose existence she had not expected. It was his
turn now to make a similar discovery regarding herself.
'I mean nothing, father,' she said. 'I'm just telling you what
happened. He came to me looking like a dog that's going to be
washed--'
'Why, of course, he was nervous, my dear.'
'Of course. He couldn't know that I was going to refuse him.'
She was breathing quickly. He started to speak, but she went on,
looking straight before her. Her face was very white in the moon-
light.
'He took me into the rose-garden. Was that Sir Thomas's idea? There
couldn't have been a better setting, I'm sure. The roses looked
lovely. Presently, I heard him gulp, and I was so sorry for him I I
would have refused him then, and put him out of his misery, only I
couldn't very well till he had proposed, could I? So, I turned my
back, and sniffed at a rose. And, then, he shut his eyes--I couldn't
see him, but I know he shut his eyes--and began to say his lesson.'
'Molly!'
She laughed, hysterically.
'He did. He said his lesson. He gabbled it. When he had got as far
as, 'Well, don't you know, what I mean is, that's what I wanted to
say, you know,' I turned round and soothed him. I said I didn't love
him. He said, 'No, no, of course not.' I said he had paid me a great
compliment. He said, 'Not at all,' looking very anxious, poor
darling, as if even then he was afraid of what might come next. But
I reassured him, and he cheered up, and we walked back to the house
together, as happy as could be.'
McEachern put his hand round her shoulders. She winced, but let it
stay. He attempted gruff conciliation.
'My dear, you've been imagining things. Of course, he isn't happy.
Why, I saw the young fellow--'
Recollecting that the last time he had seen the young fellow--
shortly after dinner--the young fellow had been occupied in
juggling, with every appearance of mental peace, two billiard-balls
and a box of matches, he broke off abruptly.
Molly looked at him.
'Father.'
'My dear?'
'Why do you want me to marry Lord Dreever?'
He met the attack stoutly.
'I think he's a fine young fellow,' he said, avoiding her eyes.
'He's quite nice,' said Molly, quietly.
McEachern had been trying not to say it. He did not wish to say it.
If it could have been hinted at, he would have done it. But he was
not good at hinting. A lifetime passed in surroundings where the
subtlest hint is a drive in the ribs with a truncheon does not leave
a man an adept at the art. He had to be blunt or silent.
'He's the Earl of Dreever, my dear.'
He rushed on, desperately anxious to cover the nakedness of the
