to impart, only that she did not know what it was.  At times it was as if she carried some monstrous thing on her back, whilst she could only see its dark, shapeless shadow.  Her self-confidence was going, and her culture was so useless.  What good was it to her now to know really well the writings of Burke, or Macaulay—­nay, of Racine and Pascal?  She had never been religious since her childhood, but in these long, solitary days in the great house that grew more and more gloomy as she passed about it when Molly was out, she began to feel new needs and to seek for old helps.

Molly was sometimes struck by the change in her companion.  Miss Carew seemed to have grown so futile, so incoherent and funny, unlike the Miss Carew who had been her finishing governess not many years ago.

The sight of Carey’s troubled, mottled face began to irritate Molly to an unbearable degree.

“Why not have a treatment for eczema and have done with it?  You used to have quite a clear skin,” she cried, in brutal irritation one morning.

“Oh! it’s nerves—­merely nerves,” said poor Miss Carew apologetically.

“Then have a treatment for nerves,” cried Molly furiously.  “It is too ridiculous to have blotches on your face because I have a bad temper!”

It was the night after the little supper party at which the slander was born that Molly said this rude thing, and then abruptly left the drawing-room to join a hairdresser who was waiting upstairs.  Almost immediately afterwards Adela Delaport Green was standing over the stiff chair on which Miss Carew was sitting, very limp in figure, and holding a damp handkerchief to her face.

“How d’ye do?  They told me Molly was here,” she said in a disappointed voice, and her eyes ranged round the room with the alertness of a sportswoman.

Adela had come with a purpose; she had come there to right the wrong and to force Molly to tell the truth.

“She was here a moment ago.  She has just gone up to the hairdresser,” said Miss Carew as she got up, quickly restoring the damp handkerchief to her pocket and composing her countenance, not without a certain dignity.  She liked Adela, who was always friendly and civil whenever they met.

That little lady threw herself pettishly into a deep chair.

“So tiresome when I haven’t a minute to spare, and I suppose he will keep her nearly an hour?”

“Can I take a message?”

“Oh! no, thanks, dear Miss Carew, don’t go up all those horrid steep steps.  Do rest and entertain me a little.  I am sure you feel these hot days terribly.”

“I find it very cool and quiet here,” said Miss Carew, a little sadly.

“I’m afraid it’s lonely,” cried Adela.

“Well!  I oughtn’t to grumble about that.”

“No, you never do grumble, I know; but I feel sometimes that you must be tired and anxious, placed, as you are, as the only thing instead of a mother to poor, dear Molly!”