It appeared as if Mrs. Gibson’s predictions were likely to be verified; for Osborne Hamley found his way to her drawing-room pretty frequently.  To be sure, sometimes prophets can help on the fulfilment of their own prophecies; and Mrs. Gibson was not passive.

Molly was altogether puzzled by his manners and ways.  He spoke of occasional absences from the Hall, without exactly saying where he had been.  But that was not her idea of the conduct of a married man, who, she imagined, ought to have a house and servants, and pay rent and taxes, and live with his wife.  Who this mysterious wife might be, faded into insignificance before the wonder of where she was.  London, Cambridge, Dover, nay even France, were mentioned by him as places to which he had been on these different little journeys.  These facts came out quite casually, almost as if he was unaware of what he was betraying; sometimes he dropped out such sentences as these:—­’Ah, that would be the day I was crossing!  It was stormy, indeed!  Instead of our being only two hours, we were nearly five.’  Or, ’I met Lord Hollingford at Dover last week, and he said,’ &c.  ’The cold now is nothing to what it was in London on Thursday—­the thermometer was down at 15 degrees.’  Perhaps, in the rapid flow of conversation, these small revelations were noticed by no one but Molly; whose interest and curiosity were always hovering over the secret she had become possessed of, in spite of all her self-reproach for allowing her thoughts to dwell on what was still to be kept as a mystery.

It was also evident to her that Osborne was not too happy at home.  He had lost the slight touch of cynicism which he had affected when he was expected to do wonders at college; and that was one good result of his failure.  If he did not give himself the trouble of appreciating other people, and their performances, at any rate his conversation was not so amply sprinkled with critical pepper.  He was more absent, not so agreeable, Mrs. Gibson thought, but did not say.  He looked ill in health; but that might be the consequence of the real depression of spirits which Molly occasionally saw peeping out through all his pleasant surface-talk.  Now and then, he referred to ’the happy days that are gone,’ or, ‘to the time when my mother was alive,’ when talking directly to her; and then his voice sank, and a gloom came over his countenance, and Molly longed to express her own deep sympathy.  He did not often mention his father; and Molly thought she could read in his manner, when he did, that something of the painful restraint she had noticed when she was last at the Hall still existed between them.  Nearly all that she knew of the family interior she had heard from Mrs. Hamley, and she was uncertain as to how far her father was acquainted with them; so she did not like to question him too closely; nor was he a man to be so questioned as to the domestic affairs of his patients.  Sometimes she wondered if it was a dream—­that short