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"At home," returns he. He is gazing out of the window, with his hands clasped behind his back, and does not pay so much attention to her words as is his wont. "That isn't her name at all," says Geoffrey. "My father was a baronet, you know: she is Lady Rodney." "I will do my best," says Mona, earnestly; "but if I fail,—if after all my efforts your mother still refuses to love me, how will it be then?".

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"Let me go, Mona," says Geoffrey, forcing her arms from round him and almost flinging her to one side. It is the first and last time he ever treats a woman with roughness. The last lodge had been set up in the Blackfeet winter camp. Evening was closing over the travel-tired people. The sun had dropped beyond the hills not far away. Women were bringing water from the river at the edge of the great circle. Men gathered in quiet groups, weary after the long march of the day. Children called sleepily to each other, and the dogs sniffed about in well-fed content. Geoffrey, leading his wife into the hall, pauses beneath a central swinging lamp, to examine her critically. The footman who is in attendance on them has gone on before to announce their coming: they are therefore for the moment alone. "And why not this or any other drawer?" says Rodney, growing pale. Again jealousy, which is a demon, rises in his breast, and thrusts out all gentler feelings. Her allusion to Mr. Moore, most innocently spoken, and, later on, her reference to the students, have served to heighten within him angry suspicion..