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"Neither could I," puts in Geoffrey. "But it was hard on you, my darling." When the young man got there, the badger was in his hole. But Scarface called to him, "Oh, cunning striped face! I wish to speak with you." The music, soft and almost mournful, echoes through the room; the feet keep time upon the oaken floor; weird-like the two forms move through the settled gloom..

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And by degrees, beneath her influence, Mona grows pale and distrait and in many respects unlike her old joyous self. Each cold, reproving glance and sneering word,—however carefully concealed—falls like a touch of ice upon her heart, chilling and withering her glad youth. Up to this she has led a bird's life, gay, insouciant, free and careless. Now her song seems checked, her sweetest notes are dying fast away through lack of sympathy. She is "cribbed, cabined, and confined," through no fault of her own, and grows listless and dispirited in her captivity. Mona's waxen arms gleam like snow in the uncertain light. Each movement of hers is full of grace and verve. Her entire action is perfect. "You've been reading novels," says Rodney, contemptuously. "Very pretty indeed, and quite good taste and that. She's a Mrs. Lennox, and her husband is our master of the hounds. She is always quite correct in the matter of clothes." There is an awful reservation in her Grace's tone, which is quite lost upon Mona. "But she is by no means little in her own opinion, and in fact rather prides herself upon her—er—form generally," concludes the duchess, so far at a loss for a word as to be obliged to fall back upon slang..