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She lays her hand upon her heart, as though she would say, "The wound lies here," and once more turns to the door. "Tell me again how it all happened," he says, laying his hands on her shoulders. And then she goes through it again, slowly, carefully. "Down below in the hollow, miss,—jist behind the hawthorn-bush. Go home some other way, Miss Mona: they're bint on blood.".
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He drops his eyes, and the low, sneering laugh she has learned to know and to hate so much comes again to his lips. They don't want to endure the cold; but what can they say? Politeness forbids secession of any kind, and, after a few words with the saintly Philippa, they follow their guide in all meekness through halls and corridors out into the garden she most affects. Sir Nicholas, just moving his glass from one eye to the other, says "Good evening" to him, bending his head courteously, nay, very civilly, though without a touch, or suspicion of friendliness. He does not put out his hand, however, and Paul Rodney, having acknowledged his salutation by a bow colder and infinitely more distant than his own, turns to Mona. "Why could you not have stayed in Australia?" says Mona, with some excitement. "You are rich; your home is there; you have passed all your life up to this without a title, without the tender associations that cling round Nicholas and that will cost him almost his life to part with. You do not want them, yet you come here to break up our peace and make us all utterly wretched.".
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