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Mona, sinking languidly into a chair, turns the note over and over between her fingers, whilst wondering in a disjointed fashion as to whom it can be from. She guesses vaguely at the writer of it, as people will when they know a touch of the hand and a single glance can solve the mystery.,"This is nicer than anything," she says, turning in a state of childish enthusiasm to Lady Lilias. "It is just like the floor in my uncle's house at home.","Father," said Kŭt-o-yĭs´, "have you no arrows?",She has sprained her ancle, and is now lying on a couch in a small drawing room as the Rodneys are ushered in. She is rather glad to see them, as life with an "intense" sister is at times trying, and the ritualistic curate is from home. So she smiles upon them, and manages to look as amiable as plain people ever can look.,She would have gone to him then, and tried to console him in her own pretty fashion, but he motions her to stay where she is.,"Late again, Jermyn," says Sir Nicholas, lazily.,"Why?" demands her mistress, somewhat haughtily. "I suppose even the English gentleman, as you call him, can see butter with dying! Show him in at once.",So began the Bull Society.,For some time they talk together, and then the duchess, fearing lest she may be keeping Mrs. Geoffrey from the common amusement of a ballroom, says, gently,—,This thought seems to overwhelm her. She raises her hands to her head, and an expression of keenest anguish creeps into her eyes. She sways a little, and would have fallen, but that Jack Rodney, who is nearest to her at this moment, catches her in his arms.,"You are Sir Nicholas?" questions she at last, gaining courage to speak, and raising her eyes to his full of entreaty, and just a touch of that pathos that seems of right to belong to the eyes of all Irishwomen.,The very air is still. There is no sound, no motion, save the coming and going of their own breath as it rises quickly from their hearts, filled full of passionate admiration for the loveliness before them..
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