Molly’s hands were clasped in her lap.  They did not tremble, but they gripped one another rather tightly.

“I want to say a good many things,” she said, after a moment.

Lord Wyverton smiled suddenly.  He had meeting brows, but his smile was reassuring.

“Yes?” he said.  “About your sister?”

“Partly,” said Molly.  She put up an impatient hand and removed her hat.  Her hair shone gloriously in the sunlight that fell chequered through the overarching trees.

“I want to talk to you seriously, Lord Wyverton,” she said.

“I am quite serious,” he assured her.

There followed a brief silence.  Molly’s eyes travelled beyond him and rested upon the plodding horses in the hay-field.

“I have heard,” she said at length, “that men and women in your position don’t always marry for love.”

Wyverton’s brows drew together into a single, hard, uncompromising line.  “I suppose there are such people to be found in every class,” he said.

Molly’s eyes returned from the hay-field and met his look steadily.  “I like you best when you don’t frown,” she said.  “I am not trying to insult you.”

His brows relaxed, but he did not smile.  “I am sure of that,” he said, courteously.  “Please continue.”

Molly leaned slightly forward.  “I think one should be honest at all times,” she said, “at whatever cost.  Lord Wyverton, Phyllis isn’t in love with you at all.  She cares for Jim Freeman, the doctor’s assistant—­an awfully nice boy; and he cares for her.  But, you see, you are rich, and we are so frightfully poor; and mother is often ill, chiefly because there isn’t enough to provide her with what she needs.  And so Phyllis felt it would be almost wicked to refuse your offer.  Perhaps you won’t understand, but I hope you will try.  If it weren’t for Jim, I would never have told you.  As it is—­I have been wondering—­”

She broke off abruptly and suddenly covered her face with her two hands in a stillness so tense that the man beside her marvelled.

He moved close to her.  He was rather pale, but by no means discomposed.

“Yes?” he said.  “Go on, please.  I want you to finish.”

There was authority in his voice, but Molly sat in unbroken silence.

He waited for several moments, then laid a perfectly steady hand on her knee.

“You have been wondering—­” he said.

She did not raise her head.  As if under compulsion, she answered him with her face still hidden.

“I have dared to wonder if—­perhaps—­you would take me—­instead.  I—­am not in love with anybody else, and I never would be.  If you are in love with Phyllis, I won’t go on.  But if it is just beauty you care for, I am no worse-looking than she is.  And I should do my best to please you.”

The low voice sank.  Molly’s habitual self-possession had wholly deserted her at this critical moment.  She was painfully conscious of the quiet hand on her knee.  It seemed to press upon her with a weight that was almost intolerable.