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"So there is; something specially awful," responds Nolly, pensively. "She frightens me to death. She has an 'eye like a gimlet.' When I call to mind the day my father inveigled me into the library and sort of told me I couldn't do better than go in for Lilias, my knees give way beneath me and smite each other with fear. I shudder to think what part in her mediæval programme would have been allotted to me." The boy—he is little more—cowers beneath her glance. He changes color, and drops the branch he holds. No excuse rises to his lips. To attempt a lie with those clear eyes upon him would be worse than useless. He turns abruptly away, and is dead to the Towers from this moment. "I'm sure I don't wonder," says Geoffrey, very humbly. "I beg your pardon a thousand times; and—good-by, Miss Mona.".
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Conrad
Mona is quite pleased. All is new, which in itself is a pleasure to her, and the sanded floor carries her back on the instant to the old parlor at home, which was their "best" at the Farm. "Ah! Walzes and polkas, you mean?" she says, in a puzzled tone. He turns, as though by an irrepressible impulse, to look keenly at her. His scrutiny endures only for an instant. Then he says, with admirable indifference,— "Leighton Hall," repeats she, slowly, fixing upon him her dark eyes that are always so full of truth and honesty. "But you told me you were poor. That a third son——".
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