From Florence had come the information that Madame Danterre was supposed
to be in failing health, and that she had been seldom seen to drive out
of her secluded grounds this summer, whereas last year she used to go
long distances in her old-fashioned English carriage in the evenings.
Thus it became a matter of thrilling interest whether the great fortune
would pass to Molly before any evidence could be produced of the
existence of the last will in which he so firmly believed.

"I believe the old sinner knows all about it, even if she hasn't got
it," Grosse murmured to himself.

Finally he concluded that it would be better if Molly married money and
not poverty, and did not smile on the penniless Edgar Tonmore.
Therefore, finding himself alone with her during church time next
morning, he thought no harm of trying to put a little spoke in the wheel
to prevent that affair going too easily. But first he asked her why she
did not go to church.

"I might say, why don't you go yourself?" said Molly, "but I don't mind
telling you that I hardly ever do go."

"Why not?"

"Why not?" Molly was leaning back in a low chair under the shadow of the
cedars, as still as if she would never move again, as still as the
greyhound that was lying by her. "I hate going to church. None of it
seems beautiful to me as it does to Adela. My aunt used to say that we
were not fortunate in our clergyman, but personally I don't like any
clergymen. I am anti-clerical like a Frenchwoman."