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Even as she soothed and hushed Phyllis into calmness her quick brain was at work upon the situation. There must be a way of escape somewhere. Of that she was convinced. There always was a way of escape. But for the time at least it baffled her. Her own acquaintance with Wyverton was very slight. She wished ardently that she knew what manner of man he was at heart.

Upon one point at least she was firmly determined. This monstrous sacrifice must not take place, even were it to ensure the whole family welfare. The life they lived was desperately difficult, but Phyllis must not be allowed to ruin her own life’s happiness and another’s also to ease the burden.

But what a pity it seemed! What a pity! Why in wonder was Fate so perverse? Molly thought. Such a brilliant chance offered to herself would have turned the whole world into a gilded dreamland. For she was wholly heart-free.

The idea was a fascinating one. It held her fancy strongly. She began to wonder if he cared very deeply for her sister, or if mere looks had attracted him.

She had good looks too, she reflected. And she was quick to learn, adaptable. The thought rushed through her mind like a meteor through space. He might be willing. He might be kind. He had a look about his eyes–a quizzical look–that certainly suggested possibilities. But dare she put it to the test? Dare she actually interfere in the matter?

For the first time in all her vigorous young life Molly found her courage at so low an ebb that she was by no means sure that she could rely upon it to carry her through.

She spent the rest of that day in trying to screw herself up to what she privately termed “the necessary pitch of impudence.”

* * * * *

At nine o’clock on the following morning Lord Wyverton, sitting at breakfast alone in the little coffee-room of the Red Lion, heard a voice he recognized speak his name in the passage outside.

“Lord Wyverton,” it said, “is he down?”

Lord Wyverton rose and went to the door. He met the landlady just entering with a basket of eggs in her hand. She dropped him a curtsy.

“It’s Miss Molly from the Vicarage, my lord,” she said.

Molly herself stood in the background. Behind the landlady’s broad back she also executed a village bob.

“I had to come with the eggs. We supply Mrs. Richards with eggs. And it seemed unneighbourly to go away without seeing your lordship,” she said.

She looked at him with wonderful dark eyes that met his own with unreserved directness. He told himself as he shook hands that this girl was a great beauty and would be a magnificent woman some day.

“I am pleased to see you,” he said, with quiet courtesy. “It was kind of you to look me up. Will you come into the garden?”

“I haven’t much time to spare,” said Molly. “It’s my cake morning. You are coming round to the Vicarage, aren’t you? Can’t we walk together?”

“Certainly,” he replied at once, “if you think I shall not be too early a visitor.”

Molly’s lips parted in a little smile. “We begin our day at six,” she said.

“What energy!” he commented. “I am only energetic when I am on a holiday.”

“You’re on business now, then?” queried Molly.

He looked at her keenly as they passed out upon the sunlit road. “I think you know what my business is,” he said.

She did not respond. “I’ll take you through the fields,” she said. “It’s a short cut. Don’t you want to smoke?”

There was something in her manner that struck him as not altogether natural. He pondered over it as he lighted a cigarette.

“They are cutting the grass in the church fields,” said Molly. “Don’t you hear?”