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Overcome by the heat of the fire, her luncheon, and the blessed certainty that for this one day at least no one is to be admitted to her presence, Lady Rodney has given herself up a willing victim to the child Somnus. Her book—that amiable assistant of all those that court siestas—has fallen to the ground. Her cap is somewhat awry. Her mouth is partly open, and a snore—gentle, indeed, but distinct and unmistakable—comes from her patrician throat. "Lady Mary Crighton? Yes, I have met her. An old lady with corkscrew ringlets, patches, and hoops? She is quite grande dame, and witty, like all you Irish people." "It was two hours ago," says Mona, gently. "And then it was quite daylight, or at least"—truthfully—"only the beginning of dusk.".

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She is enchanted, and stands there for a minute or two spellbound by the glory of the scene before her. Then a desire to see her beloved lake from the great windows in the northern gallery takes possession of her. She will go and look at it, and afterwards creep on tiptoe to the library, seize the book she had been reading before dinner, and make her way back again to her room without any one being in the least the wiser. Anything will be better than sitting here any longer, dreaming dismal day-dreams. It is the first time since their marriage that she and Geoffrey have been parted, and it seems to her a hard thing that such partings should be. A sense of desolation creeps over her,—a sense of loneliness she has never known before. "Jack Foster and Terry O'Brien write to me very often," goes on Mona, unconsciously. "And indeed they all do occasionally, at Christmas, you know, and Easter and Midsummer, just to ask me how I am, and to tell me how they have got through their exams. But it is Jack and Terry, for the most part, who send me the music." THE OTHER SOCIETIES.