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"I am not so sure of that," says Mona, with admirable tact and an exquisite smile, "but I shouldn't mind spending an hour with you." "It is like a fairy-tale," says Violet, with unwonted excitement. "Oh, Mona, tell us how you managed it." "Nevertheless, you might have waived that fact, and sent down word you had a headache.".
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This is all. The paper is old, soiled, and has apparently made large acquaintance with pockets. It looks, indeed, as if much travel and tobacco are not foreign to it. Geoffrey, taking it from Mona, holds it from him at full length, with amiable superciliousness, between his first finger and thumb. "And have you walked from Coolnagurtheen this morning? Why, it is eight miles from this," says she, taking no notice of his last speech. "You could have had no breakfast!" The minutes go by slowly, slowly; a clock from some distant steeple chimes the hour. The soft pattering of rain upon the walk outside, and now upon the window-pane, is all the sound that can be heard. She is sitting before a spinning-wheel, and is deftly drawing the wool through her fingers; brown little fingers they are, but none the less dear in his sight..
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