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"You have never told me how many people are in your house?" says Mona, presently. "Tell me now. I know about your mother, and," shyly, "about Nicholas; but is there any one else?" A doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower, "Brilliantly.".

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"And now a last word, Mona. When you come down to dinner to-night (and take care you are a little late), be gay, merry, wild with spirits, anything but depressed, whatever it may cost you. And if in the drawing-room, later on, Lady Rodney should chance to drop her handkerchief, or that eternal knitting, do not stoop to pick it up. If her spectacles are on a distant table, forget to see them. A nature such as hers could not understand a nature such as yours. The more anxious you may seem to please, the more determined she will be not to be pleased." "Coward!" hisses Rodney between his teeth. His face is pale as death; his teeth are clenched; his gray eyes are flaming fire. His hat has fallen off in the struggle, and his coat, which is a good deal torn, betrays a shirt beneath deeply stained with blood. He is standing back a little from his opponent, with his head thrown up, and his fair hair lying well back from his brow. Mona, sitting down to the piano, plays a few chords in a slow, plaintive fashion, and then begins. Paul Rodney has come to the doorway, and is standing there gazing at her, though she knows it not. The ballroom is far distant, so far that the sound of the band does not break upon the silence of the room in which they are assembled. A hush falls upon the listeners as Mona's fresh, pathetic, tender voice rises into the air. Presently he closes his fingers upon hers, and looking up, she sees his lips are moving, though no sound escapes them. Leaning over him, she bends her face to his and whispers softly,—.