It was
June.
"It's the laziest sound on earth," said Wyverton.
Molly turned off the road to a stile. "You ought to take a holiday," she
said, as she mounted it.
He vaulted the railing beside it and gave her his hand. "I'm not
altogether a drone, Miss Neville," he said.
Molly seated herself on the top bar and surveyed him. "Of course not,"
she said. "You are here on business, aren't you?"
Wyverton's extended hand fell to his side. "Now what is it you want to
say to me?" he asked her, quietly.
Molly's hands were clasped in her lap. They did not tremble, but they
gripped one another rather tightly.
"I want to say a good many things," she said, after a moment.
Lord Wyverton smiled suddenly. He had meeting brows, but his smile was
reassuring.
"Yes?" he said. "About your sister?"
"Partly," said Molly. She put up an impatient hand and removed her hat.
Her hair shone gloriously in the sunlight that fell chequered through the
overarching trees.
"I want to talk to you seriously, Lord Wyverton," she said.
"I am quite serious," he assured her.
There followed a brief silence. Molly's eyes travelled beyond him and
rested upon the plodding horses in the hay-field.
"I have heard," she said at length, "that men and women in your position
don't always marry for love."
Wyverton's brows drew together into a single, hard, uncompromising line.
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