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"Is it a long drive, Geoff?" she asks, presently, in a trembling tone, slipping her hand into his in the old fashion. "About six miles. I say, darling, keep up your spirits; if we don't like it, we can leave, you know. But"—alluding to her subdued voice—"don't be imagining evil." There is relief in the thought. She springs from her bed, clothes herself rapidly, and descends to the breakfast room. Yet the day thus begun appears to her singularly unattractive. Her mind is full of care. She has persuaded Geoffrey to keep silence about all that last night produced, and wait, before taking further steps. But wait for what? She herself hardly knows what it is she hopes for. "Of the last time I heard any one sing," returns he, slowly. "I was comparing that singer very unfavorably with you. Your voice is so unlike what one usually hears in drawing-rooms.".
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Still holding her hand, as though loath to quit it, he moves towards the door; but before reaching it she slips away from him, and says "Good-by" rather coldly. Mona pours out the tea—which is excellent—and puts in the cream—which is a thing to dream of—with a liberal hand. She smiles at Geoffrey across the sugar-bowl, and chatters to him over the big bowl of flowers that lies in the centre of the table. Not a hothouse bouquet faultlessly arranged, by any means, but a great, tender, happy, straggling bunch of flowers that seem to have fallen into their places of their own accord, regardless of coloring, and fill the room with their perfume. "Perhaps you would rather rest for a while. Do you know this is the first time I have ever been inside the Towers?" He says this as one might who is desirous of making conversation, yet there is a covert meaning in his tone. Mona is silent. To her it seems a base thing that he should have accepted the invitation at all. "Yes, but he always doffed it; and he never put one on like ordinary mortals, he always donned it. You can't think what a difference it makes.".
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