Molly felt checked, and there had been something strange and unfamiliar in Miss Carew’s face.  Suddenly she felt what it would be to tell Miss Carew the truth—­Miss Carew, who was now her dependent, receiving from her L100 a year, would be shocked and startled out of her senses, and might not take these horrible revelations at all kindly.  It would, anyhow, be such a reversal of their mutual positions as Molly could not face.  And by the time the chestnut hair tinged with grey had been pinned a little crooked on Miss Carew’s head, and she had knocked timidly at Molly’s door, she was startled and offended by the impatient, overbearing tone of the voice that asked her to “go back to bed and not to bother; it was nothing that mattered.”

The night had got on further than Molly knew by that time, and she was relieved to hear it strike four o’clock.  She was astonished at noticing that, while she had been walking up and down, up and down her room, she had never heard the clock strike two or three.  The fact of having spoken to Miss Carew had brought her for the moment out of the inferno of the last few hours, and the time from four o’clock to six was less utterly miserable because worse had gone before it.

At six she called the housemaid, and kept her fussing about the room, lighting the fire, and getting tea, so as not to be alone again.  At eight o’clock she sent for coffee and eggs, and the coffee had to be made twice before she was satisfied with it.  Then she suddenly said she felt much better, and, having dressed much more quickly than usual, she went out.

Molly had determined to confide the position to Father Molyneux.  When she got to the church in Kensington it was only to find that Father Molyneux had gone away for some days.

That evening the doctor was again summoned, and told Miss Carew that he had now no doubt that Miss Dexter was suffering from influenza, with acute cerebral excitement, and the case was decidedly anxious.

“He might have found out that it was influenza last night,” said Miss Carew indignantly, “and I even told him the housemaid had just had influenza!  Molly simply caught it from her, as I always thought she would.”

BOOK III

CHAPTER XXI

AN INTERLUDE OF HAPPINESS

An interlude of happiness, six weeks of almost uninterrupted enjoyment, followed for Rose after she went on board Sir Edmund’s yacht.

Edmund Grosse had most distinctly made up his mind that during those weeks he would not betray any ulterior motive whatever.  They were all to be amused and to be happy.  There is no knowing when an interlude of happiness will come in life; it is not enough to make out perfect plans, the best fail us.  But sometimes, quite unforeseen, when all the weather signs are contrary, there come intervals of sunshine in our hearts, in spite of any circumstances and the