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"Do not ever speak to me like that again," says Mona, turning upon him eyes humid with disappointment, yet free from wrath of any kind. "As for Mr. Moore," with a curl of her short upper lip that it does him good to see, and a quick frown, "why, he is as old as the hills, and as fat as Tichborne, and he hasn't got a single hair on his head!" Then Mona rises, and they both come to the entrance of the small room, and stand where Lady Rodney can overhear what they are saying. "An' the biggest birds, an' as full o' corn as iver ye see, the rogues!".
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Presently he closes his fingers upon hers, and looking up, she sees his lips are moving, though no sound escapes them. Leaning over him, she bends her face to his and whispers softly,— Mona smiles too in return, though still heavy at heart. She turns slowly, and finds her fellow-pedestrian is a young man clad in a suit of very impossible tweed: she blushes hotly, not because he is a young man, but because she has no hat on her head, having covered her somewhat riotous hair with a crimson silk handkerchief she had found in Geoffrey's room, just before starting. It covers her head completely, and is tied under the chin Connemara fashion, letting only a few little love-locks be seen, that roam across her forehead, in spite of all injunctions to the contrary. "You speak like a book," says Rodney, with an unlovely laugh; "but advice seldom cures. I only know that I have learned what stagnation means. I may alter in time, of course, but just at present I feel that.
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