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"I am afraid you must class me with the ignorant," says Mona, shaking her pretty head. "I know nothing at all about thistles, except that donkeys love them!" "No," says Nicholas, "she isn't; though I should consider her dear at any price." He is a depraved young man who declines to see beauty in ebony and gloom. "But," with a sigh, "I don't think you quite understand, darling." It was in the boudoir they were sitting, and Violet was dressed in some soft gray dress that shone and turned into palest pearl as she moved. It was his mother's boudoir, the room she most affects, with its crimson and gray coloring and its artistic arrangements, that blend so harmoniously, and are so tremendously becoming to the complexion when the blinds are lowered. How pretty Mona would look in a gray and crimson room? how——.
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"The village is two miles farther on. I think you had better come in and breakfast here. Uncle will be very glad to see you," she says, hospitably. "And you must be tired." "Where are you going—far from the camp?" asked the old woman. "They certainly must be a lively lot, if all one hears is true," says Geoffrey, with a suppressed yawn. "You are all wet. Do go home and change your clothes," says Mona, who is still sitting on the grass with her gown spread carefully around her. "Or perhaps"-reluctantly—"it will be better for you to go to the farm, where Bridget will look after you.".
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