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She nods her head gayly as she says this, being pleased at her apt quotation from the one book she has studied very closely. To and fro they sway, and then both men fall heavily to the ground. Presently they are on their feet again, but this time Rodney is master of the unloaded gun. Mona obeys, feeling no shrinking from the kindly stout lady who is evidently bent on being "all things" to her. It does occur, perhaps, to her laughter-loving mind that there is a paucity of nose about the duchess, and a rather large amount of "too, too solid flesh;" but she smothers all such iniquitous reflections, and commences to talk with her gayly and naturally..
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"Take me down," says Mona, wearily, turning to her lover, as the last faint ring of the horse's feet dies out on the breeze. "I have been taught nothing," she says, with a most successful grasp at dignity. "They do not speak of you at the Towers,—at least, not unkindly." She looks at him as she says this, but lowers her eyes as she meets his. This dark, vehement young man almost frightens her. After one turn she stops abruptly, near an entrance. "Why not? it just suits him: 'A little, round, fat, oily man of——'".
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