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"Forgive me, Mona," he says, with deep entreaty. "I confess my fault. How could I speak to you as I did! I implore your pardon. Great sinner as I am, surely I shall not knock for forgiveness at your sweet heart in vain!" "Ah!" says Mona, springing to her feet, and turning to the door, as though to summon aid; but he stops her by a gesture. "I had a small adventure," says Mona, presently, with suppressed gayety. All her gayety of late has been suppressed. "Just as I came back to the gate here, some one came riding by, and I turned to see who it was, at which his horse—as though frightened by my sudden movement—shied viciously, and then reared so near me as almost to strike me with his fore-paws. I was frightened rather, because it was all so sudden, and sprang to one side. Then the gentleman got down, and, coming to me, begged my pardon. I said it didn't matter, because I was really uninjured, and it was all my fault. But he seemed very sorry, and (it was dusk as I told you, and I believe he is short sighted) stared at me a great deal.".

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"Dear Lady Rodney, you are really too kind," she says, in a tone soft and measured as usual, but without the sweetness. In her heart there is something that amounts as nearly to indignant anger as so thoroughly well-bred and well regulated a girl can feel. "You are better, I think," she says, calmly, without any settled foundation for the thought; and then she lays down the perfume-bottle, takes up her handkerchief, and, with a last unimportant word or two, walks out of the room. "Were you? I have forgotten it," replies she, smiling happily, the color coming back to her cheeks. Whereupon Paul Rodney's brows contract, and with a muttered curse he turns aside and leaves the room, and then the house, without another word or backward glance. To her it is an awful moment. Never before has she stood face to face with dissolution, to wait for the snapping of the chain,—the breaking of the bowl. "Neither the sun nor death," says La Rochefoucauld, "can be looked at steadily;" and now "Death's thousand doors stand open" to receive this man that but an hour agone was full of life as she is now. His pulses throbbed, his blood coursed lightly through his veins, the grave seemed a far-off destination; yet here he lies, smitten to the earth, beaten down and trodden under, with nothing further to anticipate but the last change of all. "Oh, yes, you may go," says Mona. Geoffrey says nothing. He is looking at her with curiosity, in which deep love is mingled. She is so utterly unlike all other women he has ever met, with their petty affectations and mock modesties, their would-be hesitations and their final yieldings. She has no idea she is doing anything that all the world of women might not do, and can see no reason why she should distrust her friend just because he is a man..