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"I shall not be too nervous," says Mona, but her face blanches afresh even as she speaks; and Geoffrey sees it. "I am very glad I did," replies he, doggedly. "At least I have seen you. They cannot take that from me. I shall always be able to call the remembrance of your face my own." With mingled feelings he quits his home, and all the way up to London in the afternoon train weighs with himself the momentous question whether he shall or shall not accept the unwilling invitation to the Towers, wrung from his mother..
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A dead silence follows. Lady Rodney raises her head, scenting mischief in the air. "It is here," says Mona, rather pleased at his remembering this promise of hers, and, going to a desk, proceeds to open a secret drawer, in which lies the picture in question. "Well for my part I hate people who sing a little. I always wish it was even less. I hold that they are a social nuisance, and ought to be put down by law. My eldest brother Nick sings really very well,—a charming tenor, you know, good enough to coax the birds off the bushes. He does all that sort of dilettante business,—paints, and reads tremendously about things dead and gone, that can't possibly advantage anybody. Understands old china as well as most people (which isn't saying much), and I think—but as yet this statement is unsupported—I think he writes poetry." "Is she—is she noisy?" she asks, in a faltering tone..
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