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For Geoffrey the prelude has been played, and now at last he knows it. Up and down the little hall he paces, his hands behind his back, as his wont when deep in day-dreams, and asks himself many a question hitherto unthought of. Can he—shall he—go farther in this matter? Then this thought presses to the front beyond all others:—"Does she—will she—ever love me?" "No. Of course I remember you now," says Mona, taking all this nonsense as quite bona fide sense in a maddeningly fascinating fashion. "How unkind I have been! But I was listening to the music, not to our introduction, when Sir Nicholas brought you up to me, and—and that is my only excuse." Then, sweetly, "You love music?" "About the moon? Oh, many things. I was not thinking of the moon," with faint impatience; "yet, as you ask me, I can remember one thing he says about it.".
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Conrad
"Why, so I was," says Mona, opening her eyes with some surprise, and with an amused smile. "What a good guess, and considering how late the hour is, too!" "I promise you faithfully," says Mona. "You are at Mangle Farm," returns she. Then, judging by the blank expression on his face that her words bring him no comfort, she continues with a smile, "That doesn't seem to help you much, does it?" "I don't mean that; but how could you look?".
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