“I am far from well, but I believe Dr. Larrone has found out the cause and will soon put things right again.  If you ever hear anything about me from Dr. Larrone you can put entire confidence in him.  I have found out now why Sir Edmund Grosse has tried to see me.  He is possessed with the absurd idea that I have no right to Sir David Bright’s fortune, although he does not venture to call in question the validity of the will which left that fortune to me.  Dr. Larrone has certain proof that Grosse employs a detective here to watch this house.  I have also heard that he is in love with poor David’s widow, and hence I suppose this trop de zele on her behalf.  As he cannot get at me he is likely to try to become intimate with you, so I warn you to avoid him now and in future.”

That was all.

Molly sat staring vacantly in front of her, almost unconscious of her surroundings from the intensity of pain.  Each item in the horror of the situation told on her separately, but in no sequence—­with no coherence.  Shame, “hopes early blighted, love scorned,” kindness proved treason, the prospect of complete and dishonourable poverty, a poverty which would enrich her foes.  And all this was mixed in her mind with the dreadful words from the old letters that seemed to be shouted at her.

Miss Carew, coming in at dinner-time, was horror-struck by what she saw.  Molly was sitting on the floor surrounded by letters and papers, moaning and biting her hand.  The gong sounded, the parlourmaid announced dinner, and Molly gathered up her papers, locked them in the box, fastened the key on to her chain—­all in complete silence—­and got up from the floor.  She then walked straight into the dining-room in her large hat and outdoor clothes without speaking.

And without a word the terrified Miss Carew went with her, and tried to eat her dinner.

Molly ate a very little of each thing that was offered to her, taking a few mouthfuls voraciously, and then quite suddenly, as she was offered a dish of forced asparagus, she went into peal after peal of ringing, resounding laughter.  “I should like you to have asparagus at every meal,” she said, and then again came peal after peal—­each a quite distinct sound.  It was dreadful to hear, and Miss Carew and the servant were terrified.  It was the laughter, not of a maniac, not of pure unreasoning hysteria, not quite of a lost soul.  It suggested these elements, perhaps, but it was chiefly a nervous convulsion at an overpowering perception of the irony in the heart of things.

The hysterical fit lasted long enough for Miss Carew to insist on a doctor, and Molly did not resist.  When he came she implored him to give her a strong sleeping-draught.  She kept Miss Carew and the maid fussing about her, in a terror of being alone, until the draught was at last sent in by a dilatory chemist.  She then hurried them away, drank the medicine, and set herself to go to sleep.  The draught acted soon, as Miss Carew learnt by listening at the door and hearing the deep, regular breathing.  But the effects passed off, and Molly sat up absolutely awake at one o’clock in the morning.  She lay down again and tried to force herself to sleep by sheer will power, but she soon realised the awful impotence of desire in forcing sleep.