bstained from commenting on it.
She was shrewd enough to recognise that the man who boasts of
lukewarmness is generally something less than tepid.

"You will be coming to see the Father?" she suggested.

"You must make my excuses, Molly. I am here to-day and back in Melbourne
to-morrow. I have fallen on my feet. Where do you think I am working?"
he asked Kathleen as they walked towards the house.

"On a paper," she suggested.

"No; in an advertising agency, the biggest in Melbourne, drawing posters
for them, and helping in the business. I shall be a partner before long.
Jackson, the boss, has been a good friend to me, and Mrs. Jackson might
be a mother, and Sylvia--a sister."

The hesitation that preceded the latter part of this speech was not
lost upon Molly Healy. It caused her a spasm of pain that was sharp, if
it was only short-lived, for she was a girl, if a sensible and healthy
one, and she always had greatly admired Desmond O'Connor.

In the dining-room they sat down close together.

"I am glad you have such good friends? How did you find them?" asked
Kathleen.

"I can't for the life of me discover that. Jackson came to see me and
offered to help me. I rather fancy Gerard must have sent him."

"Gerard!" cried Molly Healy, scornfully. "Do you fancy he would take so
much trouble? It is 'out of sight as good as buried' with Gerard."

Kathleen O'Connor flushed up at these words, but refrained from reply.
Desmond answered banteringly:

"You will hate to the end, Molly?"

"Sure, my hates are as enduring as my loves," said Molly. "You can
always know how you will find Molly Healy."

"I don't think you are quite fair to Gerard," said Desmond.

"Now, tell us about--Sylvia Jackson, Desmond," said Kathleen, anxious to
terminate the discussion.

"Sylvia Jackson," he answered, with an assumed carelessness, that was in
itself suspicious to the critical ears of Molly Healy. "Why are you so
anxious to hear about her?"

"Is she pretty?" asked Kathleen.

Molly Healy watched him curiously, and noted a certain embarrassment in
his face.

"That is a question of taste. Some people consider her pretty," he
answered.

"And why not say that Desmond O'Connor is one of those people? Of course
she is pretty, Kathleen, and charming and kind to Desmond. Didn't he say
so? Are you kind to her, Desmond?" cried Molly.

"Kind to her?" he replied, with a species of horror in his voice, as if
one of his most sacred convicti