solicitors.  She was determined not to give any trouble she could avoid giving, in the business of handing over that which had never belonged to her.  At this time of year the journey to Dieppe would be no difficulty, and she wanted to go there rather than to Boulogne or any other French port, because she had the address of a very cheap and clean pension in which Miss Carew had passed some weeks before coming to live with Molly in London.  From that pension Molly could write the letters she felt physically incapable of writing to-night.  The only note she determined to write at once was to Carey, asking her to remain at Westmoreland House and to tell the servants that Miss Dexter had gone abroad.  She told her that she had gone to the pension at Dieppe, but earnestly insisted that she should not follow her.  She begged her to do nothing before getting a letter that she would write to her at once on arriving at Dieppe.  She also asked her to keep the key of the safe which she enclosed in her letter.  Molly sealed the letter, and then felt some hesitation as to when and how to give it to Miss Carew.  She finally decided to send it by a messenger boy from the station when it would be too late for Miss Carew to follow her, and when it would still be in time to prevent any astonishment at her not returning home that night.

Miss Carew, thinking that Molly had gone out to dinner, came into her bed-room to look for a book.  The night was hot and oppressive, but no one had raised the blinds since the sun had set, and the room was so dark that she did not at once see Molly.  She started nervously, half expecting one of Molly’s impatient and rude exclamations on being disturbed, and, with an apology, was going away when Molly said gently: 

“Stay a minute, Carey; I’m not going to dine out to-night.”

“But there is no dinner ordered, and I have just had supper.  I am going out this evening to see a friend.”

“Never mind,” Molly interrupted, “I can’t eat anything.  I am going out for a drive in a hansom in the cool.  Would you mind saying that I shall not want the motor?”

“My dear! are you not well?”

“Not very.”  And suddenly Miss Carew began to read the great change in her face.  “It has none of it been very good for me, Carey; you have been quite right.  This house and all was a mistake.  You have never said it, but I have seen it in your eyes.  And it has not even been in quite good taste for me to make such a splash—­you thought that too.  I’m going to stop it all now, dear, and probably the house will be sold; it’s been an unblest sort of thing.”

Miss Carew stared.  The tone was so different from any she had ever heard in Molly’s voice; it was very gentle, but exhausted, as if she had been through an acute crisis in an illness.

“Carey dear, you have always been so kind to me, and I have been very unkind to you.  You will have to know things that will make you hate and despise me to-morrow.  But would you mind giving me one kiss to-night?”