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"In the National Gallery, do you mean?" asks Mona, with a pretty, puzzled frown on her brow. "Oh, no, Geoffrey; I shouldn't like that at all. To be stared at by everybody,—it wouldn't be nice, would it?" The buffalo were surprised and the magpie was glad, and flew about making a great noise. There is no grate, and the fire, which has plainly made up its mind not to light, is composed of Yule-logs. The floor is shining with sand, rushes having palled on Lady Lilias..
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"Oh, no, you won't," says Rodney, absently. In truth, his mind is wandering to that last little speech of hers, and is trying to unravel it. "Oh, if you will not," says Mr. Rodney, wrathfully. And so it is arranged. And that evening Geoffrey indites a letter to Mrs. Manning, Grafton Street, Dublin, that brings a smile to the lips of that cunning modiste. CHAPTER XXXIII..
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