Mrs. Delaport Green gave a little shriek of excitement.

“He trusted all his affairs to a scoundrel, and this is the result.”  Molly’s tone was still negative.

“Well, that does seem a shame!”

“I don’t know; if a man will neglect his affairs he must take the consequence.”

“Oh! but I do think it is hard; he used his money so well.”

“Did he?” Molly raised her eyebrows.

“Well, he was a perfect host, and was so awfully good-natured, don’t you know?”

In the real interest in the news, Adela had, for the moment, forgotten that Molly might be especially interested in anything concerning Edmund Grosse.  She was reminded by the low, thundery voice in which Molly began to speak quite suddenly, as if her patience had been tried too far.

“You are just like all the others!  It’s enough to make one a radical to listen to it.  After all, what good has Sir Edmund Grosse done with his money?  He gave dinners that ruined people’s livers—­I suppose that was good for the doctors!  He gave diamonds to actresses, and I suppose that was for the good of art.  He has never done a stroke of work; he has wallowed in luxury, and now his friends almost cry out against Providence because he will have to earn his bread.  Probably several hundreds a year will be left, and many men would be thankful for that.  Then other people say it is such a pity that now he cannot marry Lady Rose Bright.  They have the effrontery to say that to me, as if L800 a year were not enough for them to marry on if they cared for each other!”

All this tirade seemed to Adela the very natural outpouring of jealousy, and, as she fully intended to be an intimate friend of Molly’s she sympathised and agreed, and agreed and sympathised till she fairly, roused Molly’s sense of the ludicrous.

“I don’t mean,” Molly said, half angry and half amused, “that I shall spend my money so very much better;—­I quite mean to have my fling.  Only I do so hate all this cant.”

At last Adela departed, crying out that she had promised to be in Hoxton an hour ago, and Molly was left alone.  It was too late to go to the shops, she reflected, and she sank back into a deep chair with a frown on her white forehead.

What did it matter to her if they were engaged or not?  It made no sort of difference.  She was not going to allow her peace of mind to be upset on their account; she had done with that sentimental nonsense long ago.  Her illness had made a great space between her present self and the Molly who had been so foolishly upset by the discovery of Edmund Grosse’s treachery.  Curiously enough Molly had never doubted of that treachery, although it was one of the horrors that had come out of the doubtful, and probably mythical, tin box.