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It is the 20th of February; already winter is dying out of mind, and little flowers are springing everywhere. "I can't well get away before that, you know, as Wigley is a good way off. But I'll try all I know. And, after all," says Geoffrey, with a view to cheering her, "it isn't as bad as if I was ordered off somewhere for a week, is it?" "To Rome," says Mona. "But do you mean it? Can you afford it? Italy seems so far away." Then, after a thoughtful silence, "Mr. Rodney——".
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"What does he say about the moon?" asks Mona, still with her knees in her embrace, and without lifting her eyes from the quiet waters down below. At this his dark face flames, and his eyes instinctively, yet almost against his will, seek hers. "I think I like no poet half so well. You mistake me," replies he, ashamed of his own surprise at her preference for his lordship beneath the calm purity of her eyes. "But—only—it seemed to me Longfellow would be more suited to you." "Why, what is the matter?" he says, seeing signs of the lively storm on all their faces. Doatie explains hurriedly..
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