“I don’t understand,” said Sara slowly, “how they let you go on playing until you owed twenty pounds.  Don’t you square up at the end of the afternoon’s play?”

“Yes.  But I’d—­I’d been losing badly, and—­and some one lent me the money.”

Molly flushed a bewitching rose-colour and appealed with big, pathetic eyes.  It was difficult to be righteously wroth with her, but Sara steeled her heart.

“You’d no right to borrow,” she said shortly.

“No.  I know I hadn’t.  But, don’t you see, I thought I should be sure to win it all back?  I couldn’t ask Dad for it.  Every penny he can spare goes on something that mother can’t possibly do without,” added the girl with unwonted bitterness.

The latter fact was incontrovertible, and Sara remained silent.  In her own mind she regarded Mrs. Selwyn as a species of vampire, sucking out all that was good, and sweet, and wholesome from the lives of those about her—­even that of her own daughter.  Did the woman realize, she wondered, that instead of being the help all mothers were sent into the world to be, she was nothing but a hindrance and a stumbling-block?

“I don’t know what to do, I simply don’t.”  Molly’s humble, dejected tones broke through the current of Sara’s thoughts.  “You see, the worst of it is”—­she blushed even more bewitchingly than before—­“that I owe it to a man.  It’s detestable owing money to a man!”—­with suppressed irritation.

Two fine lines drew themselves between Sara’s level brows.  This was worse than she had imagined.

“Who is it?” she asked, at last, quietly.

“Lester Kent.”

“And who—­or what—­is Lester Kent?”

“He’s—­he’s an artist—­by choice.  I mean,” stumbled Molly, “that he’s quite well off—­he only paints for pleasure.  He often runs down from town for a month or two at a time and takes out a temporary membership for our club.”

“And he has lent you this money?”

“Yes”—­rather shamefacedly.

“Well, he must be paid back at once.  At once, do you understand?  I will give you the twenty pounds—­you’re not to bother your father about it.”

“Oh, Sara!  You are a blessed duck!”

In an instant Molly’s cares had slipped from her shoulders, and she beamed across at her deliverer with the most disarming gratitude.

“Wait a moment,” continued Sara firmly.  “You must never borrow from Mr. Kent—­or any one else—­again.”

“Oh, I won’t!  Indeed, I won’t!” Molly was fervent in her assurances.  “I’ve been wretched over this.  Although”—­brightening—­“Lester Kent was really most awfully nice about it.  He said it didn’t matter one bit.”

“Did he indeed?” Sara spoke rather grimly.  “And how old is this Lester Kent?”

“How old?  Oh”—­vaguely—­“thirty-five—­forty, perhaps.  I really don’t know.  Somehow he’s not the sort of person whose age one thinks about.”

“Anyway, he’s old enough to know better than to be lending you money to play bridge with,” commented Sara.  “I wish you’d give up playing, Molly.”