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Lady Rodney holds out her hand, and Mona lays hers within it. "No," says Mona, shaking her head. "Not—not to-night. I shall soon." "Certainly dear. Who is it?".
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"Very. But for myself I have no voice worth hearing. I sing, you know, a little, which is my misfortune, not my fault; don't you think so?" "Well, it always is on her head," says Mr. Rodney, at which ridiculous joke they both laugh as gayly as though it were a bon-mot of the first water. That "life is thorny, and youth is vain" has not as yet occurred to either of these two. Nay, more, were you even to name this thought to them, they would rank it as flat blasphemy, and you a false prophet—love and laughter being, up to this, the burden of their song. At this Mona lifts her head, and turns upon him eyes full of the tenderest love and trust. She would have dearly liked to go to him, and place her arms round his neck, and thank him with a fond caress for this dear speech, but some innate sense of breeding restrains her. From the high hill on which they stand, steep rocks descend until they touch the water's edge, which lies sleeping beneath them, lulled into slumber by the tranquil moon as she comes forth "from the slow opening curtains of the clouds.".
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