"I'm a Catholic," said Molly, a little in wonder.
But Molly wasn't listening, nor would she have known what the distinction meant, had she been. It was Mr. Jonas who gave forth another sound that was almost a snort, and marched off to where King and Alexina were sitting on the step.
Molly watched him go, then glanced around as if to insure aloofness, and leaned forward, her fingers pulling at the edge of her handkerchief.
"You helped him to die, and you're a priest--one sort of a priest--and I want to tell you--"
"No," said the other, "you do not understand; let me make you see."
"It doesn't matter," said Molly; "no," hurriedly, "let me tell you. I want to tell you. It will help me. I take things--I have to; anything that will make me forget and make me sleep. I'm afraid--I take it because I'm afraid to die."
He looked at her out of dull eyes. She was, self-avowedly, everything he held abhorrent--alien, worldly, and weak. He stammered something--was he asking God to help her, or himself?--and left her.
Later, as he and Mr. Jonas drove back to Aden, the eyes of Mr. Jonas snapped. "You're brewing mischief to your own or somebody else's peace of mind; you always are when you look like that. Out with it, man."
Why Mr. Henderson should out with it, he himself knew less than any, but Mr. Jonas had a way.
The minister's words came forth with effort.
"I've been seeking light to know why Mrs. Garnier was sent down here. I've never cared for a woman before; I can't seem to tear it out. But to-day it's made clear: she was sent to me to be saved."
But the minister was impervious to the sarcasm.
The others gone, Alexina, King William and the Captain sat on the porch. The girl who was on the step reached up and put a hand on the locket swinging from the Captain's fob. "May I?" she asked, "I used to, often, you know."
The Captain slipped the watch out and handed it to her, the rest depending, and she opened the locket, a large, thin, plain gold affair. "This," she said, bending over it, then looking up at the Captain archly, "this is Julie Piquet, your mother, wife of Aristide Leroy, refugee and Girondist."
She recited it like a child proud of knowing its lesson, then regarded him out of the corners of her eyes, laughing.