everything that is out of season, and one chef for my vegetables alone.  Have you ever turned your attention to vegetable diet?  Doctor Larrone, whom I thoroughly confide in, sees no reason why life should not be indefinitely prolonged if the right—­absolutely the right—­food is always given.  I am sending you a little brochure he has written on the subject.

“I hope that your allowance is sufficient for your comfort.  I should like you to have asparagus at every meal, and I trust, my dear child, that you will never become a devote.  It is an extraordinary waste of the tissues.

“As we are not likely to correspond again, I should like you to
know that I have made a will bequeathing to you the fortune which
was left me, as an act of reparation, by Sir David Bright.

“I wonder why an Englishman, Sir Edmund Grosse, has made so many
attempts at seeing me?  Do you know anything of him?  I risk much in
the effort to write this letter to assure you of my love.

“YOUR DEVOTED MOTHER.

“P.S.—­There is no need to answer the question as to Sir Edmund
Grosse.”

Molly was so intensely disgusted with the miserable old woman’s letter that her first inclination was to burn it at once.  She was kneeling before the fire with that intention when Sir Edmund Grosse was announced.  She thrust the paper into her pocket, and realised in a flash how astonishing it was that Sir Edmund should have tried to see Madame Danterre.  The only explanation that occurred to her at the moment was that he had tried to see her mother because of his interest in herself.  She did not know that he had not been in Florence since he had known her.  But what could have started him in the notion that Miss Dexter was Madame Danterre’s child?  And did he know it for certain now?  That was what she would like to find out.

Molly had on a pale green tea-gown, which fell into a succession of almost classic folds with each rapid characteristic movement.  The charm of her face was enormously increased by its greater softness of expression.  Although she could not help wishing to please him, even in a moment full of other emotion, she did not know how much there was to make her successful to-day.  She did not realise her own physical and moral development during the past months.

Edmund’s manner was unconsciously caressing.  He had come, he told himself—­and it was the third time he had called at the flat,—­simply because he wanted to keep in touch, to get any information he could.  And he had heard rumours from Florence that Madame Danterre was becoming steadily weaker and more unable to make any effort.

“A man told me the other day that this was the best-furnished flat in London, and, by Jove!  I rather think he was right.”

“I never believe in the man who told you things, he is far too apposite; I think his name is Harris.”

Edmund smiled at the fire.