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There is both dignity and tenderness in her tone. She gazes at him earnestly for a moment, and then suddenly slips one arm round his neck. Mona evades a reply. So Doatie, nervous and miserable, and with unshed tears in her eyes, stands where he tells her, with her hand resting on the back of an arm-chair, while he, going over to the window, deliberately turns his face from hers. Yet even now he seems to find a difficulty in beginning. There is a long pause; and then——.
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It is Mona's laugh. Raising their eyes, both mother and son turn their heads hastily (and quite involuntarily) and gaze upon the scene beyond. They are so situated that they can see into the curtained chamber and mark the picture it contains. The duke is bending over Mona in a manner that might perhaps be termed by an outsider slightly empresse, and Mona is looking up at him, and both are laughing gayly,—Mona with all the freshness of unchecked youth, the duke with such a thorough and wholesome sense of enjoyment as he has not known for years. "You look like Marguerite. A very lovely Marguerite," says Geoffrey, idly, gazing at her rather dreamily. "Now, sir speak," she says, at length in rather tremulous tones growing fearful of the lengthened silence. There is a dangerous vibration in the arm that Geoffrey has round her, that gives her warning to make some change in the scene as soon as possible. "Yes, I was indeed. Down in a small place cabled Castle-Connell, near Limerick. Nice people in Limerick, but a trifle flighty, don't you think? Fond of the merry blunderbuss, and all that, and with a decided tendency towards midnight maraudings.".
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