she murmured; and she sat staring at the picture.
Molly remained silent.
Her aunt looked slowly up at her. "Has a man like that presumed—"
"He's not a bit like that. Yes, he's exactly like that," said Molly. And she would have snatched the photograph away, but her aunt retained it.
"Well," she said, "I suppose there are days when he does not kill people."
"He never killed anybody!" And Molly laughed.
"Are you seriously—" said the old lady.
"I almost might—at times. He is perfectly splendid."
"My dear, you have fallen in love with his clothes."
"It's not his clothes. And I'm not in love. He often wears others. He wears a white collar like anybody."
"Then that would be a more suitable way to be photographed, I think. He couldn't go round like that here. I could not receive him myself."
"He'd never think of such a thing. Why, you talk as if he were a savage."
The old lady studied the picture closely for a minute. "I think it is a good face," she finally remarked. "Is the fellow as handsome as that, my dear?"
More so, Molly thought. And who was he, and what were his prospects? were the aunt's next inquiries. She shook her head at the answers which she received; and she also shook
