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"Go and dance, my dear," he says, quickly, in a tone that decides her. It is to please him, for his sake, she must do this thing; and so, without any awkward hesitation, yet without undue haste, she turns and lays her hand on the Australian's arm. A few minutes later she is floating round the room in his arms, and, passing by Geoffrey, though she sees him not, is seen by him. "Thank you," murmurs he, gratefully. There is evidently comfort in the thought. Then after a moment or two he goes on again, as though following out a pleasant idea: "Some day, perhaps, that vault will hold you too; and there at least we shall meet again, and be side by side." She is clad in a snowy gown of simple cotton, that sits loosely to her lissom figure yet fails to disguise the beauty of it. A white kerchief lies softly on her neck. She has pulled up her sleeves, so that her arms are bare,—her round, soft, naked arms that in themselves are a perfect picture. She is standing with her head well thrown back, and her hands—full of corn—lifted high in the air, as she cries aloud, "Cooee! Cooee!" in a clear musical voice..
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Mona starts, and regards him fixedly in a puzzled, uncertain manner. What he can possibly mean is unknown to her; but yet she is aware of some inward feeling, some instinct such as animals possess, that warns her to beware of him. She shrinks from him, and in doing so a slight fold of her dress catches in the handle of a writing-table, and detains her. "Yes, really. Horrid bore, isn't it?—but county dinners must be attended, and Nicholas will do nothing. Besides, it isn't fair to ask him just now, dear old fellow, when he has so much upon his mind." "You have said too much already, and there sha'n't be an end of it, as you declared just now," protests Doatie, vehemently, who declines to be comforted just yet, and is perhaps finding some sorrowful enjoyment in the situation. "I'll take very good care there sha'n't! And I won't let you give me up. I don't care how poor you are. And I must say I think it is very rude and heartless of you, Nicholas, to want to hand me over to 'some other man,' as if I was a book or a parcel! 'Some other man,' indeed!" winds up Miss Darling, with a final sob and a heavy increase of righteous wrath. To her it is an awful moment. Never before has she stood face to face with dissolution, to wait for the snapping of the chain,—the breaking of the bowl. "Neither the sun nor death," says La Rochefoucauld, "can be looked at steadily;" and now "Death's thousand doors stand open" to receive this man that but an hour agone was full of life as she is now. His pulses throbbed, his blood coursed lightly through his veins, the grave seemed a far-off destination; yet here he lies, smitten to the earth, beaten down and trodden under, with nothing further to anticipate but the last change of all..
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