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"In the National Gallery, do you mean?" asks Mona, with a pretty, puzzled frown on her brow. "Oh, no, Geoffrey; I shouldn't like that at all. To be stared at by everybody,—it wouldn't be nice, would it?" "But your uncle's death made it all right, didn't it?" "Not yet; but I suppose there must be a village near here, and an inn, and I want you to direct me how to get to it. I am giving you a great deal of trouble," remorsefully, "but my boy knows nothing.".
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"And those dogs forever at her heels!—positively, she is half a savage. The whole thing is in keeping, and quite detestable. How can you expect me to welcome a girl who is without family and absolutely penniless? Why, I am convinced that misguided boy bought her even her trousseau!" Mona shudders. "Very. But for myself I have no voice worth hearing. I sing, you know, a little, which is my misfortune, not my fault; don't you think so?" "One of Thomas's billet-doux, no doubt," says Geoffrey, dreamily, alluding to the under-footman, but thinking of something else..
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