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That he—who has known so many seasons, and passed through the practised hands of some of the prettiest women this world can afford, heart-whole, and without a scratch—should fall a victim to the innocent wiles of a little merry Irish girl of no family whatever, seems too improbable even of belief, however lovely beyond description this girl may be (and is), with her wistful, laughing, mischievous Irish eyes, and her mobile lips, and her disposition half angelic, half full of fire and natural coquetry. "What are you thinking of?" asks Mona, softly, breaking in upon his soliloquy. "Eh?" says Lady Rodney, rousing from a day-dream. "I don't know, I'm sure; but I'll see about it; I'll make inquiries.".
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"Let me go, Mona," says Geoffrey, forcing her arms from round him and almost flinging her to one side. It is the first and last time he ever treats a woman with roughness. "You shall guess," says Mrs. Geoffrey, gayly, with a little laugh. "Now, where do you think?" "Do you like it?" she asks, gently, bringing her gaze back from the glowing heavens, to the earth, which is even more beautiful. She disappears, and Geoffrey, obedient to orders, lounges off to the green glade, that now no longer owns rich coloring, but is strewn with leaves from the gaunt trees that stand in solemn order like grave sentries round it..
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