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Another pause. Mona is on thorns. Will the branching path, that may give her a chance of escaping a further tete-a-tete with him, never be reached? Whereat the boy smiles and grins consumedly, as though charmed with his companion's metaphor, though in reality he understands it not at all. "Mona, don't talk like that," says Geoffrey, biting his lips..
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The description is graphic, certainly. "You mean the Australian?" says Dorothy. "Oh, as for him, he is perfectly utter!—such a man to follow in Nicholas's footsteps!" "But you couldn't fondle a pig on your knees," says Mona, who is growing every minute more and more mixed. From the hills the scent of the heather is wafted towards him, filling him with a subtle keen sense of youth and gladness and the absolute joy of living. His good dog is at his heels; a boy—procured from some neighboring cabin, and warranted not to wear out, however long the journey to be undertaken or how many miles to travel—carries his bag beside him..
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