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"I suppose so," says Mona lifting her brows.,One hand is resting lightly with a faintly theatrical touch upon the head of the lean greyhound, the other is raised to her forehead as though to shield her eyes from the bright sun.,"From whom?" demands Mona, lazily, seeing the writing is unknown to her.,'Silently, one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven,,"That isn't her name at all," says Geoffrey. "My father was a baronet, you know: she is Lady Rodney.",THE BULLS SOCIETY,says Mr. Rodney, airing his bit of Dryden with conscious pride, in that it fits in so nicely. "At all events, you can't call it,,"Come," he says, gently.,"With pleasure," says Mona.,"But I shouldn't like any one to touch it except you," says Mr. Rodney, truthfully. "Even now, as your fingers press it, I feel relief.","Say so, if you do: it will be honester. If you don't," threateningly, "I shall of course think the contrary.","Other people have done it,—do it every day," says Dorothy, stoutly. She has dried her eyes, and is looking almost as pretty as ever. "We might find a dear nice little house somewhere, Nicholas," this rather vaguely, "might we not? with some furniture in Queen Anne's style. Queen Anne, or what looks like her, is not so very expensive now, is she?".