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"You have grounds for saying so, of course?" On a low bed, with his eyes fastened eagerly upon the door, lies Paul Rodney, the dews of death already on his face. "What has Mr. Moore to do with you?" he asks, haughtily. "Who is he, that he should so speak to you?".
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"How can I go," he says, without daring to look at her, "until, at least, I ask for forgiveness?" He feels more nervous, more crushed in the presence of this little wounded Irish girl with her pride and her grief, than he has ever felt in the presence of an offended fashionable beauty full of airs and caprices. "Mona, love makes one cruel: I ask you to remember that, because it is my only excuse," he says, warmly. "Don't condemn me altogether; but forgive me once more." "No," he replied, "I am in a hurry; I cannot stop." The man draws back hurriedly, and the woman once more sinks back into her forlorn position. "And mine is Mona Scully," returns she, with the smile that seems part of her lips, and which already has engraven itself on Mr. Rodney's heart. "Now, I suppose, we know each other.".
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