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To make personal remarks, we all know, is essentially vulgar, is indeed a breach of the commonest show of good breeding; yet somehow Mrs. Geoffrey's tone does not touch on vulgarity, does not even belong to the outermost skirts of ill-breeding. She has an inborn gentleness of her own, that carries her safely over all social difficulties. Long ago, almost in the beginning, a man and his wife were sitting in their lodge when Thunder came and struck them. The man was not killed. At first he lay as if dead, but after a time he lived again, and, standing up, looked about him. He did not see his wife. Mona is, however, by no means disconcerted; she lifts her calm eyes to Nolly's, and answers him without even a blush..
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"Then, no doubt, she heaped upon you priceless gems of Irish wit in her mother-tongue?" Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels, Geoffrey, too, raises his head and smiles, in sympathy with his wife's burst of merriment, as does Miss Darling, who stops her conversation with Sir Nicholas to listen to it. "No, I haven't, if that's romance. Of course there was nothing for it but to shut my eyes again and resign myself to my fate. I wonder I'm not dead," says Nolly, pathetically. "I never put in such a time in my life. Well, another quarter of an hour went by, and then I cautiously opened my eyes and looked again, and—would you believe it?"—indignantly,—"there they were still!".
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