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"I thought I did," says Geoffrey, waking slowly to a sense of the situation. "Ah! Walzes and polkas, you mean?" she says, in a puzzled tone. Lady Rodney, rising hurriedly, sails with offended dignity from the room..
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"That betrays the meanness of the world," says Mona, slowly and with indignation. "Has not Geoffrey just declared himself to be a younger son?" It is a very pretty room, filled with a subdued light, and with a blazing fire at one end. All bespeaks warmth, and home, and comfort, but to Mona in her present state it is desolation itself. The three occupants of the room rise as she enters, and Mona's heart dies within her as a very tall statuesque woman, drawing herself up languidly from a lounging-chair, comes leisurely up to her. There is no welcoming haste in her movements, no gracious smile, for which her guest is thirsting, upon her thin lips. "Good by, dear Paul," says Mona, very gently, impressed by his evident grief and earnestness. There is no vehement applause as Mona takes her fingers from the keys, but every one says, "Thank you," in a low tone. Geoffrey, going up to her, leans over her chair and whispers, with some agitation,—.
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