“Who was the attractive little priest I met here the other day?” he asked.

“Little!  He is as tall as you are.”

“Still, one thinks of him as un bon petit pretre, doesn’t one?  But who is he?”

“Father Molyneux.”

“Not Groombridge’s cousin?”

“Yes, the same.”

“I wonder if he repents of his folly now?  I didn’t think he looked particularly cheerful!”

“Didn’t you?” said Molly.  “Well, I think he is the happiest person I know!  But we never do agree about people, do we?”

“About a few we do, but it’s much more amusing to talk about ourselves, isn’t it?”

“Much more.  What do you want me to tell you about myself this time?”

Edmund looked at her with sleepy eyes and perceived that something had changed.  “I should like to know what you think about me?” he said gently.

“No, you wouldn’t,” said Molly, and she gave a tiny sigh.  “No, for some reason or other you want to know something which I have settled to tell you.”

Her manner alarmed and excited him.  As a matter of honourable dealing he felt that he ought to give her pause.  “Are you sure you are wise?” he said.

“I’m not sure, but that’s my own affair, and it will be a relief.  I would rather you knew what you want to know, though why you want to know”—­her eyes were searching him—­“I can’t tell.”

Sir Edmund Grosse almost told her that he did not want to know.

“You want to know for certain that my mother is living in Florence under the name of Madame Danterre—­the Madame Danterre you have tried to see there.  And further, you want to know how much I have ever seen of her.”

“Oh, please!” cried Edmund, “I don’t indeed wish you to tell me all this.”

“You do, and so I shall answer the questions.  I have never seen her in my life.  But these last few weeks I have thought I ought to try, so I wrote and offered to go to her, and I have this evening had the first letter she has ever written to me.  In this letter”—­she drew it half out of her pocket—­“she declines to see me, and she exhorts me to a vegetable diet.”

There was a moment in which her face looked the embodiment of sarcasm, then something gentler came athwart it.  He had never come so near to liking her before.  He could no longer think of her as all the more dangerous on account of her attractions; she was a suffering, cruelly-treated woman.  It is dangerous to see too much of one’s enemies:  Edmund was growing much softer.

“But why,” she went on with quiet dignity, “did you try so hard to break through her seclusion?”

It was a dreadful question—­a question impossible to answer.  He was silent; then he said—­

“Dear lady, I told you I did not want you to satisfy what you supposed to be my wish for knowledge, and I am very sorry that now, at least, I cannot tell you why I wished to see Madame Danterre.”