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Geoffrey raises her hand to his lips. "Your king is also your slave," he says, with a fond smile. Geoffrey does not hear her. Paul does. And as his own name, coming from her lips, falls upon his ear, a great change passes over his face. It is ashy pale; his lips are bloodless; his eyes are full of rage and undying hatred: but at her voice it softens, and something that is quite indescribable, but is perhaps pain and grief and tenderness and despair combined, comes into it. Her lips—the purest and sweetest under heaven—have deigned to address him as one not altogether outside the pale of friendship,—of common fellowship. In her own divine charity and tenderness she can see good in others who are not (as he acknowledges to himself with terrible remorse) worthy to touch the very hem of her white skirts. Mona accepts this excuse for bygone injustice, and even encourages her mother-in-law to enlarge upon it,—seeing how comfortable it is to her so to do,—and furthermore tries hard in her own kind heart to believe in it also..

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"You are wrong: I am quite well," says Mona, smiling, and rousing herself. Geoffrey, leading his wife into the hall, pauses beneath a central swinging lamp, to examine her critically. The footman who is in attendance on them has gone on before to announce their coming: they are therefore for the moment alone. "I sha'n't go to bed at all," declares Mrs. Geoffrey, excitedly. "I shall never go to bed again, I think, until all this is cleared up. Geoffrey, bring me over that chair." "I can't," says Mona; "it would be very unfair; and besides," petulantly, "it is all too absurd. Why, if Mr. Moore were to ask me to marry him ten thousand times again, I should never say anything but 'no.'".