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"Some fellows go away for months," says Geoffrey, still honestly bent on cheering her, but unfortunately going the wrong way to work. Mona pours out the tea—which is excellent—and puts in the cream—which is a thing to dream of—with a liberal hand. She smiles at Geoffrey across the sugar-bowl, and chatters to him over the big bowl of flowers that lies in the centre of the table. Not a hothouse bouquet faultlessly arranged, by any means, but a great, tender, happy, straggling bunch of flowers that seem to have fallen into their places of their own accord, regardless of coloring, and fill the room with their perfume. "A little bird whispered it to us," explains Geoffrey, lightly. Then, taking pity on Nolly's evident agony, he goes on "that is, you know, we guessed it; you were so long absent, and—and that.".
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"Then why did you choose that song?" "Yes. And after Shakspeare, I like him best, and then Longfellow. Why do you speak in that tone? Don't you like him?" "No?" Then, "Not if you dislike it of course. But Nicholas made a point of my being nice to him. I did not know you would object to my dancing with him." Just as Mona crosses the threshold, a man, stepping from among the group that lies in shadow, approaching the stretcher, puts forth his hand, as though he would lift the sheet and look upon what it so carefully conceals. But the woman, springing like a tigress to her feet, turns upon him, and waves him back with an imperious gesture..
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