Naturally, it never struck him for a moment that Molly might think it was for her sake that he had tried to see her mother, as he had not known of her existence when he was in Florence.  But his reticence made her incline much more to that idea.  She almost blushed in the firelight.  Edmund was feeling baffled and sorry.  If there were another will—­and he still maintained that there was another—­certainly Miss Dexter knew nothing about it.  He had wronged her; and after all what reasonable grounds had there been for his suspicions as to her guilt?

“I suppose,” he thought, “Rose is right, and will-hunting is demoralising, or ‘not healthy,’ as she calls it.”

But he had been too long silent.

“It is very hard on you to get such a letter,” he said, with a ring of true sympathy in his voice and more expression than usual in his face.  “I wish I had not come in and disturbed you; I wish you had a woman friend here instead.”

“I don’t,” said Molly quickly.  “Don’t go yet.  I can say as little as I like with you, and then I’m going to church to hear the bon petit pretre preach.”

“He will lure you to Rome.”

“Perhaps.”

“Well, I think there’s a good deal to be said for Rome.”

“Don’t you mind people joining it?” she asked, a little eagerly.

“No, I like it better than Ritualism.”

“But Lady Rose is a Ritualist.”

“I believe you will find angels few and far between in any religion.”

“It must be nice to be an angel,” mused Molly.

He had risen to go; he thought he might still find Rose at home and he wanted to speak to her, yet he was in no hurry to be gone.

“Don’t give me an excuse for compliments; I warn you, you will repent it if you do,” he said warmly; and then, after a little hesitation which might well have been mistaken for an effort at self-command in a moment of emotion, he added in a low voice—­

“May I come and see you again very soon?”

As Molly gave him her hand he looked at her with wistful apology for having wronged her in his thoughts, for having intruded into her secrets.  There was more pity in his eyes than he knew at the moment.  He bent his head after that, and with the foreign fashion he sometimes fell into, and which Molly had known before, gently kissed her hand.  The quick kindly action was the expression of his wish to make amends.

Molly stood quite still after he had gone away, as motionless as a living figure could stand, her grey eyes dilated and full of light.  Would he could have seen her!  But if he had, would he have understood what love meant in a heart that had never before been opened by any great human affection?  No love of father, mother, sister, or brother had ever laid a claim on Molly.  The whole kingdom of her affections had been standing empty and ready, and now the hour of fulfilment was near.

“He will come again very soon,” she whispered to herself.  And then she put her hand to her lips and kissed it where it had been kissed a moment before, but with a devotion and reverence and gentleness that made the last kiss a tragic contrast.