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"I hear this dance at the Chetwoodes' is to be rather a large affair," says Geoffrey, indifferently. "I met Gore to-day, and he says the duchess is going, and half the county." He smiles, and, turning, kneels before her in mock humility that savors of very real homage. Taking her hand, he presses it to his lips. "Mrs. Rodney would perhaps prefer to dance, mother," he says, with some irritation..
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A strange feeling of shyness is weighing upon her. Her stalwart English lover is standing close beside her, having risen from his chair with his eyes on hers, and in his shirt-sleeves looking more than usually handsome because of his pallor, and because of the dark circles that, lying beneath his eyes, throw out their color, making them darker, deeper, than is their nature. How shall she bare the arm of this young Adonis?—how help to heal his wound? Oh, Larry Moloney, what hast thou not got to answer for! There is admiration blended with relief in her tone, and Geoffrey begins to feel like a hero of Waterloo. "Now you speak sensibly. The sooner you begin to hate me the better." "You are very much to be admired," says his mother, in an abominable tone..
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