ardon? Let me
comfort you."

Mr. Amherst makes no reply, but he gently presses the fingers that have
found their way around his neck.

"I, too, would ask pardon," Molly goes on, in her sweet, low,
_trainante_ voice, that has a sob in it here and there. "How shall
I gain it after all that I have done--to distress you so, although
unintentionally?--And you think hardly of me, grandpapa? You think I
did it to annoy you?"

"No, no; not now."

"I have made you ill," continues Molly, still crying; "I have caused
you pain. Oh, grandpapa! do say you are not angry with me."

"I am not. You are a good child, and Marcia wronged you. Go now, and
forget all I may have said. I am weak at times, and--and---- Go, child;
I am better alone."

In the corridor outside stands Mr. Potts, with pale cheeks and very
pale eyes. Even his hair seems to have lost a shade, and looks subdued.

"Well, what did he say to you?" he asks, in what he fondly imagines to
be a whisper, but which would be distinctly audible in the hall
beneath. "Was he awfully mad? Did he cut up very rough? I wouldn't have
been in your shoes for a million. Did he--did he--say anything
about--_me_?"

"I don't believe he remembered your existence," says Molly, with a
laugh, although her eyelids are still of a shade too decided to be
becoming. "He knew nothing of your share in the transaction."

Whereupon Mr. Potts declares himself thankful for so much mercy in a
devout manner, and betakes himself to the smoking-room.

Here he is received with much applause and more congratulations.

"Another of Mr. Potts's charming entertainments," says Sir Penthony,
with a wave of the hand. "Extraordinary and enthusiastic reception!
Such success has seldom before been witnessed! Last time he blew up two
young women; to-night he has slain an offensive old gentleman! Really,
Potts, you must allow me to shake hands with you."

"Was there ever anything more unfortunate?" says Potts, in a lachrymose
tone. He has not been inattentive to the requirements of the inner man
since his entrance, and already, slowly but surely, the brandy is doing
its work. "It was all so well arranged, and I made sure the old boy was
gone to bed."

"He is upset," murmurs Sir Penthony, with touching concern, "and no
wonder. Such tremendous exertion requires the aid of stimulants to keep
it up. My dear Potts, do have a little more brandy-and-soda. You don't
take half care of yourself."

"Not a drop,--not a