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It is in the spring—so we have been told—that "a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love;" yet it is in the autumn that our young man takes to this pleasing if somewhat unsatisfactory amusement. He drops his eyes, and the low, sneering laugh she has learned to know and to hate so much comes again to his lips. "All things are calm, and fair, and passive; earth.
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Conrad
Do paint the meadows with delight." "Why, yes, of course he can," says Mona, without the smallest hesitation. She says it quite naturally, and as though it was the most usual thing in the world for a young man to see a young woman home, through dewy fields and beneath "mellow moons," at half-past ten at night. It is now fully nine, and she cannot yet bear to turn her back upon the enchanting scene before her. Surely in another hour or so it will be time enough to think of home and all other such prosaic facts. "But you like Lady Rodney?" says Mona, in a puzzled tone. "I won't, then. Sure you can live alone with yourself for one minute," returns she, in very fine Irish; and, with a parting smile, sweet as nectar and far more dangerous, she goes..
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