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She turns slowly, and finds her fellow-pedestrian is a young man clad in a suit of very impossible tweed: she blushes hotly, not because he is a young man, but because she has no hat on her head, having covered her somewhat riotous hair with a crimson silk handkerchief she had found in Geoffrey's room, just before starting. It covers her head completely, and is tied under the chin Connemara fashion, letting only a few little love-locks be seen, that roam across her forehead, in spite of all injunctions to the contrary.,To this name, given to her in such an unkindly spirit, Mona clings with singular pertinacity. Once when Nolly has called her by it in Lady Rodney's hearing, the latter raises her head, and a remorseful light kindles in her eyes; and when Mr. Darling has taken himself away she turns entreatingly to Mona, and, with a warm accession of coloring, says, earnestly,—,Then it is enchanting to watch the petit soins, the delicate little attentions that the women in a carefully suppressed fashion lavish upon the bride-elect,—as she already is to them. There is nothing under heaven so dear to a woman's heart as a happy love-affair,—except, indeed, it be an unhappy one. Just get a woman to understand you have broken or are breaking (the last is the best) your heart about any one, and she will be your friend on the spot. It is so unutterably sweet to her to be a confidante in any secret where Dan Cupid holds first place.,At this moment Geoffrey comes into the room and up to Mona. He takes no notice whatever of her companion, "Mona, will you come and sing us something?" he says, as naturally as though the room is empty. "Nolly has been telling the duchess about your voice, and she wants to hear you. Anything simple, darling,"—seeing she looks a little distressed at the idea: "you sing that sort of thing best.","A madness most discreet,,"I really don't know, ma'am. Mitchell gave it to me," says the girl, in an injured tone. Now, Mitchell is Lady Rodney's maid.,The description is graphic, certainly.,Geoffrey, stooping over to wake her with a kiss, marks all this, and also that her eyelids are tinged with pink, as though from excessive weeping.,Thus Doatie, looking preternaturally wise, but faintly puzzled at her own view of the question.,"You would have been her henchman,—is that right, Nicholas?—or her varlet," says Dorothy, with conviction, "And you would have had to stain your skin, and go round with a cross-bow, and with your mouth widened from ear to ear to give you the correct look. All æsthetic people have wide mouths, have they not, Nicholas?",There is no disfigurement about him to be seen, no stain of blood, no ugly mark; yet he is touched by the pale hand of the destroyer, and is sinking, dying, withering beneath it. He has aged at least ten years within the last fatal hour, while in his eyes lies an expression so full of hungry expectancy and keen longing as amounts almost to anguish.,To-day—that "liberal worldling," that "gay philosopher"—is here; and last night belongs to us only in so far as it deserves a place in our memory or has forced itself there in spite of our hatred and repugnance..