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"So it is really, Mrs. Geoffrey, you know," says Nolly, placing his hand on her other shoulder to give her a second shake. "Nick's quite right. Don't take it to heart; don't now. You might as well say the gunsmith who originally sold him the fatal weapon is responsible for this unhappy event, as—as that you are." "You are candor itself," returns he, with a short laugh, shrugging his shoulders. "Of course I am bound to hope your wish may be fulfilled. And yet I doubt it. I am nearer my object to-night than I have ever been before; and," with a sardonic smile, "yours has been the hand to help me forward." Mona is watching him intently..
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"Yes,—better than all the women I ever met," corrects Mona, but without placing the faintest emphasis upon the word "women," which omission somehow possesses its charm in Rodney's eyes. Then she strains the water from it, and looks with admiration upon its steaming contents. "The murphies" (as, I fear, she calls the potatoes) are done to a turn. Violet looks at her criticizingly, then she smiles, and, placing her hand beneath Mrs. Geoffrey's chin, turns her face more to the fading light. "He did lower them. He, too, must live; and, at all events, no persecution can excuse murder," says Mona, undaunted. "And who was so good to you as Mr. Moore last winter, when the famine raged round here? Was not his house open to you all? Were not many of your children fed by him? But that is all forgotten now; the words of a few incendiaries have blotted out the remembrance of years of steady friendship. Gratitude lies not with you. I, who am one of you, waste my time in speaking. For a very little matter you would shoot me too, no doubt!".
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