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"That is just like me," says Mr. Rodney, unblushingly—"the very image of me." Slowly she turns her head away from him, and, as though following out a train of thought, fixes her eyes upon the panelled wall in front of her. Mona, sitting down to the piano, plays a few chords in a slow, plaintive fashion, and then begins. Paul Rodney has come to the doorway, and is standing there gazing at her, though she knows it not. The ballroom is far distant, so far that the sound of the band does not break upon the silence of the room in which they are assembled. A hush falls upon the listeners as Mona's fresh, pathetic, tender voice rises into the air..
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So after this earnest protest no more is ever said to her apon the subject, and Mrs. Geoffrey she is now to her mends, and Mrs. Geoffrey, I think, she will remain to the end of the chapter. "Nolly, you are inventing," says Mrs. Geoffrey, sternly. "Yes," she says, with cheeks colored to a rich carmine, and flashing eyes, and lips that quiver in spite of all her efforts at control, "that is the bit of heather you gave me, and that is the grass that tied it. I kept it because it reminded me of a day when I was happy. Now," bitterly, "I no longer care for it: for the future it can only bring back to me an hour when I was grieved and wounded." And here perhaps it will be as well to explain the trouble that at this time weighs heavily upon the Rodney family..
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