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On a low bed, with his eyes fastened eagerly upon the door, lies Paul Rodney, the dews of death already on his face. "Yes" replies he, slowly as though regretful that he cannot deny his own identity. "Enjoying myself?—No, I never do that," says Rodney, with unexpected frankness..

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"You would turn a farce into a tragedy," he says, mockingly, "Why should I bribe a servant to let me see an old room by midnight?" "Don't let us quarrel," he says, lovingly. And this time she returns his caress very fondly, though she cannot lose sight of the fact that he has committed a social error not to be lightly overlooked. "I was not listening at the door," says Mona, with dignity, yet with extreme difficulty: some hand seems clutching at her heart-strings, and he who should have been near to succor her is far away. "I never," haughtily, "listened at a door in all my life. I should not understand how to do it." Her Irish blood is up, and there is a distinct emphasis upon the pronoun. "You have wronged me twice!" Two o'clock! The song dies away, and Mona's brow contracts. So late!—the day is slipping from her, and as yet no word, no sign..