E. R. Punshon

“ The very horror of her position lent a brightness to Molly's eyes, a flush to her cheek, a sparkle to her conversation. No one could have recognised Mrs. Saunders's prim, dull, suppressed little companion in this radiant vision presiding at the tea-table. With every minute that passed Christopher Marlowe became more hopelessly her slave, signed, sealed, and delivered, so to speak, and with a little cry of horror Molly jumped to her feet.
"It's nearly six!" she cried.
"Impossible!" said Christopher. "Ridiculous! Clock's wrong."
"It isn't," said Molly. "I must fly." ”

“ Courtenay-Saunders returned and found her lady-companion, dressed in Ethel's new frock, entertaining Ethel's fiancé to tea.
However, there was one thing about it—the situation could not be worse; nothing could by any possibility make it more awful than it was. A man condemned to be hanged may be excused for caring comparatively little about anything else, and Molly's mood was like that. Two hours still remained before the crack of doom, and a whisper suggested to Molly that she had better make the most of them. ”

“ To-day everyone else, including all the servants, had gone to the flower show some local ladyship or other was opening. Mrs. Courtenay-Saunders had been sure that Miss Fayne would not mind staying at home, so that the house might not be left empty, as the maids would be so disappointed if they could not be present at the opening ceremony. Molly, of course, agreed at once, for she had long since learnt that she ranked far below the servants, since lady-companions are as common as dirt, and good servants grow rarer every day. ”