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"So do I, often,—very often," says Mr. Rodney, sadly still, but genially. "'My love in her attire doth show her wit; "Yes," she says, with cheeks colored to a rich carmine, and flashing eyes, and lips that quiver in spite of all her efforts at control, "that is the bit of heather you gave me, and that is the grass that tied it. I kept it because it reminded me of a day when I was happy. Now," bitterly, "I no longer care for it: for the future it can only bring back to me an hour when I was grieved and wounded.".
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"Well, that is in her favor, I really think," says Violet, in her most unprejudiced manner. "If she were to leave off her rococo toilettes, and take to Elise or Worth like other people, and give up posing, and try to behave like a rational being, she might almost be called handsome." She pauses. But for the absurdity of the thing, Mr. Rodney would swear there is hope in her tone. Then with a hand that trembled a little, he drew the fourth arrow from the quiver, shot it and cried, "Look out, Red Robe, the arrow will strike you"; and, turning, ran from the place with all his speed. "You aren't angry, are you?" says Mona, now really contrite. "I couldn't help it, and it was like it, you know.".
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