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When she has finished, Geoffrey says "thank you" in a low tone. He is thinking of the last time when some one else sang to him, and of how different the whole scene was from this. It was at the Towers, and the hour with its dying daylight, rises before him. The subdued light of the summer eve, the open window, the perfume of the drowsy flowers, the girl at the piano with her small drooping head and her perfectly trained and very pretty voice, the room, the soft silence, his mother leaning back in her crimson velvet chair, beating time to the music with her long jewelled, fingers,—all is remembered. He smiles, and, turning, kneels before her in mock humility that savors of very real homage. Taking her hand, he presses it to his lips. "Like 'Loraine Loraine Loree,'" says Violet, laughing..

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"I will not listen," she interrupts, passionately. "I know how you both looked a while ago. I shall never forget it; and to meet again now, with fresh cause for hatred in your hearts, would be——No. There is crime in the very air of to-night." "Anything to please you," says Geoffrey, who is laughing by this time. "May I trust my precious bones to Mazerin? He is quite fifteen, has only one eye, and a shameless disregard for the whip." "Tim," she says, "what have I ever done to you that you should seek to make me unhappy?" "What a shame!" says Mona, angrily. Then she changes her note, and says, with a soft, low, mocking laugh, "How I pity you!".