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"A little," says Mona. It is perhaps the nearest approach to a falsehood she has ever made. "I shall,—when death claims me," replies he. "You will give me an explanation at once," says Geoffrey, slowly, addressing his cousin. "What brought you here?".

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"Well; there isn't much, is there?" says Mona, pleasantly. "Do you know," he says, slowly, staring at her the while, "you are the most beautiful woman I ever saw?" "Lies! Oh, fie!" says Doatie. "Who tells lies? Nobody, except the naughty little boys in tracts, and they always break their legs off apple-trees, or else get drowned on a Sunday morning. Now, we are not drowned, and our legs are uninjured. No, a lie is a horrid thing,—so low, and in such wretched taste. But there are little social fibs that may be uttered,—little taradiddles,—that do no harm to anybody, and that nobody believes in, but all pretend to, just for the sake of politeness." Glancing round fearfully for a moment, as though desirous of making sure that no strange eyes are watching her movements, she lets the loose cloak fall to the ground, and, taking with careful haste the covering from her head, slips like Cinderella from her ordinary garments into all the glories of a fete gown. She steps a little to one side, and, throwing up her head with a faint touch of coquetry that sits very sweetly on her, glances triumphantly at Geoffrey, as though fully conscious that she is looking exquisite as a dream..